


Spinster Table

by the_real_cactus_betty



Series: You, Me. Us [1]
Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Spooning, VMTAP20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24069796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_real_cactus_betty/pseuds/the_real_cactus_betty
Summary: Post Movie. All the events happened in the movie, except Logan and Veronica never got together.Veronica and Logan are guests at Wallace and Shae’s wedding.**Complete  **
Relationships: Logan Echolls/Veronica Mars
Series: You, Me. Us [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2161011
Comments: 158
Kudos: 191





	1. Saturday

_Post Movie. All the events happened in the movie, except Logan and Veronica never got together._

\-----------------------

I flick through the channels on the motel TV like I’m searching for the answers of the universe. All the while, constantly checking the clock.

I’m cinder-fucking-rella. All dressed up and no-one to take me to the ball.

While I’m not a dress person per se I’ve decided that a wedding is as good a chance as ever to go all out. I spent half a weeks pay on a designer dress. For a person who has never worn designer clothes _in my entire life._ It feels like heaven as I slip it over my skin. It’s emerald green with spaghetti straps, a deep V (of course) and thigh-high side split. For a moment, I even forget the price and just _enjoy._

But, at this rate, it will be completely wasted.

I recheck the clock and consider leaving without him.

I _want_ to go to the wedding. I want to be there to support Wallace and Shae. But I _really_ don’t want to go alone. Sitting at the single table, having to make small talk with a bunch of losers looking to score when my guard is down.

Finally, there is a bang at the door.

I open it, just slightly, eye peeking out.

Logan stands, leaning against the doorjamb peering at me over the top of his ray-bans.

“Neptune escort services, reporting for duty,” he straightens up and salutes me with a grin.

I open the door and let him inside.

“Sorry, I _specifically_ ordered a short, balding male.”

“Come on, Veronica. Let's be serious. If _any_ escort service knew about your penchant for tasers you would have been blacklisted _long_ ago.”

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t pay you for small talk. Get dressed; we’re late.”

He pauses mid-step, “you look…” his eyes drag up and down, taking a thoughtful breath, “passable,” he winks.

Yeah, I _know_ I’m looking hot tonight. I _know_ because Logan’s eye line takes an extended pause at the split in my dress. I had to shave my _entire_ legs for this. It had been a while.

He throws his duffel and suit hanger onto the twin bed and pulls off his shirt.

I cover my eyes immediately, “Wooooah, big guy, whatcha doing there?”

Brows raised he looks at me, confused, “You _told_ me to get dressed.”

“In the bathroom! This isn’t a strip show.”

He shakes his head, takes his suit on the hanger and disappears into the bathroom.

Jesus, is he _trying_ to kill me?

Pacing back and forth around the tiny room, I head to the mini-bar, rifling through for something to do. I take out a little bottle of whiskey, reach over and check the prices on the pamphlet, $14 plus tax. Then swiftly return it to its nest. We’re about to head to a wedding at a winery with an open bar. Best to pace yourself, Veronica.

Then the man I _once_ dated appears, suddenly neat, shaven in a dark grey suit and tie, carefully cut to his large frame.

Take a breath, Veronica.

In.

Out.

He looks like he stepped out of the pages of GQ magazine, I shake my head at him.

“You look… passable,” I say, slowly dragging my eyes down Logan’s body and raising my eyebrows at him.

He makes a throaty chuckle, and runs his fingers through his hair in the mirror.

“Right, right, we need to go _now._ We’re going to miss the ceremony.”

I shuffle him out the door. Thankfully we only need to take a short walk down to the vineyard where the outdoor ceremony is set up. It’s a reasonably simple affair, chairs overlooking the beautiful hills and a small arbour adorned with flowers where Wallace waits for his bride. He spots us taking our seats and winks at me, looking a little nervous.

I scan the crowd for familiar faces.

Logan leans towards me, “Looking for fresh meat?”

I glare at him and shrug, “just scoping out the exits.”

“plenty of exits _outdoors_ ,” he grins.

Logan takes my hand and gives it a little supportive squeeze. “I know you hate weddings. Repeat after me. Open. Bar.” He looks me in the eyes.

“Open. Bar.”

“Good girl.”

\-------

We find our names on the seating chart and head towards the table.

“Oh God,” I blanch. Spotting the motley array placed at our table. Of course, we don’t know anyone. “They’ve put us on the _spinster_ table,” I shudder.

Logan laughs. “Um, Veronica. I think by definition, we are _actually_ spinsters. I’m not sure what the official classification is, but mid-thirties. Check. Single. Check. No plus one even mentioned on the invite. Check.”

I groan. “I better get some cats.”

“You don’t even _like_ cats,” he whispers to me as we sit down and start to introduce ourselves to the group, with smiles.

It _really_ is a stunning reception, as far as weddings go. Personally, I thought marriage was an outdated form of torture simply instilled in society to justify ownership of a human. But, hey, I had a family history full of affairs, abandonment and divorce to cement my beliefs. Marriage was just a one-way ticket to disappointment. Hopefully Wallace and Shae would escape the heartache.

Logan’s place card sits him next to a stunning brunette. Rebecca. My guess is late 30s.

My place card sits me next to an early 40s gentleman with a robust beard and an apparent penchant for extreme bodybuilding. Brett.

Brett was very excited to meet me as he’d “heard all about me from Shae.” I set a mental note to take back my very expensive wedding gift. Spinster table _and_ a setup. Kill me now.

Of course, Logan was happily enjoying a riveting conversation about his illustrious career as a fighter pilot. Rebecca was hook, line and sinker. I could just see the close of the night ending with me relocating to kill time at the bar while Logan hung a proverbial sock on the hotel room door.

Where _is_ the waiter with more champagne?

Thankfully he must have picked up on my desperate searching and comes to fill my glass to the brim. The waiter isn’t terrible looking, I make a mental note to re-visit him if the night turns to shit and I need someone to _cheer me up._

After a while, Rebecca excuses herself to use the bathroom. Logan turns and casually puts his hand on my knee. It’s a friendly gesture, something he regularly does. But, tonight my bare leg is exposed due to my long split. It shocks me, his warm skin on mine and I jump a little. I must have frightened him because he suddenly pulls his hand away like he was burned.

“How's your date?” he whispers grinning.

I pouted “I wish you’d let me bring my taser.”

He shakes his head, picks up his beer and bring it to his lips. “Ahh, Veronica, always trying to electrocute someone… even at a wedding.”

I shake my head at him, “Its not electrocution, its an electroshock weapon causing neuromuscular incapacitation.”

He laughs, his whole body shaking, “You’re so fucked up V.”

“Tell me about it,” I take a big gulp of my champagne.

The food finally arrives with alternate drops. Some kind of crusted red meat with jus and fish on a bed of fancy brown rice. The waiter places the fish in front of Logan and the red meat in front of me. We instantly pick up plates and swap the meals.

The fish is delicious. The wine is delicious. I’m sure this stunning reception is costing Wallace every bit of his savings. It had _better_ be delicious.

Rebecca turns to us and asks, “have you two known each other long?”

“Too long,” I say with a full mouth.

“We went to school together,” Logan explains.

Rebecca looks a little curious. “Did you ever date?”

We both nod. “In high school, and a bit in college.”

“That was a _long_ time ago. It feels like centuries ago.” I start to ramble, champagne finally kicking in.

He grins at me, “yeah Veronica, _centuries,”_ and rolls his eyes.

“He’s more of an annoying older brother figure to me now.”

Logan shuffles back into his chair a little, leaning back and looking at me, “OLDER brother, really?”

“Yeah,” I talk, pointing my fork at him, “you _are_ technically older than me.”

“Three months!”

“Exactly! _Anyway,_ he acts like my older brother most of the time, so I think it fits.”

I feel his calf under the table brush against mine.

“Brett,” Logan asks “Tell me, do you work out?” then looks me directly in the eyes with just the shadow of a devious eyebrow raise. To the untrained eye, it was nothing, to me, it meant war.

Thankfully, punishment was swiftly dealt when Logan had to feign interest in a 15-minute diatribe about the pros and cons of eating carbohydrates while bulking. When Brett _finally_ finishes I nudge Logans leg under the table. He nudges back, a little harder this time.

“Well,” he turns to Brett, “You’re sitting in the right place because Veronica just _loves_ ripped guys.”

I nearly choke, glaring at him.

A deep grin spreads across my cheeks, “Hey Logan, why don’t you tell Rebecca about the _two_ murder charges you beat. That’s a good story.”

He freezes mid-fork-into-mouth and stares me dead in the eyes.

\---------------------------

_“And that is why, when I asked Shae to marry me. I knew she was the only person in the world I wanted to kiss, every day, for the rest of my life.”_

Wallace’s speech was pretty high on the schmalz factor, but I’ll give him a free pass. It _is_ his wedding, I guess it's allowed just this once.

Logan is a little glassy-eyed so I poke him with my dessert spoon.

“You getting all misty on me there?”

He blinks, clearing any trace.

Rebecca interjects, “That was a lovely speech. Wallace is such a great guy.”

We nod. Logan picks up his spoon and pokes me back.

The band resumes playing. Some contemporary pop song and the dancefloor starts to fill.

Rebecca turns to Logan, “Care to dance?”

He sits back in his chair a little, suddenly uncomfortable. “Oh, sorry I’m not much of a dancer.”

Poor Rebecca freezes a little on the spot. I look away.

“No worries. I’ll go join the girls,” and she scurries off to the dancefloor.

I raise my eyebrows at him. He raises them back.

The waiter appears behind us again and offers us a refill. I flirt with him a little, taking a moment to graze my fingers down his arm, convincing him to leave the bottle there with us.

Logan watches the exchange “You’re diabolical,” he muses, refilling his glass.

I scoff, “ _that_ was nothing, and you _know_ it!”

\-------

Outside the air is crisp in the hills surrounding the reception hall. It’s a clear evening and the stars are out, it’s nice to see them. I missed them when I was in New York.

I stepped out for a bit of a break. The room is getting noisy and hot, and Rebecca is back at the table and her flirting with Logan is nauseating.

Wallace steps out onto the Patio to join me.

“Hey, I saw you come out, thought I’d follow.”

I smile broadly, and he wraps his arms around me for a big bear hug. Other than a quick ‘congratulations’ as they left the reception, I hadn’t had a chance to catch up with him: wedding duties and all.

“I’m so happy for you, Wallace. It’s been an awesome night.”

He nods, putting his hands in his pockets. “I’m spent, I wish we were in Jamaica already.”

“Jamaica, rub it in,” I roll my eyes at him. “Poor Wallace is tired from marrying his _beautiful wife,_ and now he has to go back to his honeymoon suite and sleep before flying to Jamaica to stay for a week at a 5-star resort. Boo-freaking-hoo.”

“Be careful Mars; you’re starting to sound a bit bitter,”

I take a long gulp from my wine glass and shake my head, “Not bitter. I’m happy for you Wallace. You deserve it,”

“Thanks,”

“But you can tell that wife of yours to reconsider her seating chart next time! She _really_ chose me a winner!”

“What's wrong, you don’t like Brett?” he laughs, “He works at the school with me, he’s alright. Logan seems to be enjoying his set up?”

“mmm.”

“mmm,” he repeats back at me with a smirk.

“Don’t say it,” I threaten with a finger towards him.

He holds up his hands, “I didn’t say anything.”

Everyone was always trying to have their say about Logan and I. Whether we _should_ be friends, or something more. Everyone's pressure and speculation never did anything but annoy me. These things couldn’t be forced. If it were going to happen, surely it would have happened.

______________________________________

Brett keeps trying to engage with me. I’d made so many excuses – going to the bathroom, needing a refill, needing to ‘freshen up’. Why couldn’t some people just get the hint?

Shae comes over to the table and pulls me onto the dancefloor, which is a welcome relief. I’m suitably drunk enough to oblige and follow her out willingly, and you _can't_ say no to the bride.

It doesn’t take long before my shoes are aching and I run back and throw them at Logan, he catches them with expertise. I can’t see Rebecca or Brett anywhere, and the spinster table is looking very sparse.

I decide I need to relax, let my hair down. We sing at the top of our lungs and all dance around avoiding Shae’s train dragging around the dancefloor.

Shae winks at me and looks over my shoulder. Logan is standing behind me.

He puts out his hand.

“Dance?”

“I thought you didn’t dance?”

Creases form at the corners of his eyes, and he wraps his arm around my waist and starts leading me to the music. A slower song starts, and we’re not keeping with the beat. With my heels off, standing in bare feet, I have to look directly up to see him. We must look quite comical.

“So…” he hesitates for a moment. “I’m being deployed again on Thursday. I just got the call on the way here. I wasn’t going to tell you tonight. But I felt like I should,” and he exhales slowly.

“Oh,” I get that sinking feeling deep in my stomach, “For how long?”

He shrugs a little.

Well, I’d better enjoy this time.

I’d gotten used to having him around again. After the madness of Carrie's death and Logan’s subsequent murder investigation, my life took a shift back to Neptune. Piz and I had ended things, and I lost the job opportunity at Truman-Mann. Suddenly I was out of work, needing to find a new place and running out of cash, fast. Cash-strapped in New York is never a good thing. I was offered a job at a law firm in San Diego that focused on criminal law, and I snapped it up. Returning to Southern California was easier than I’d imagined. I fell back into the life quickly and comfortably. I’d also surprised myself how easily I’d fallen back into my friendship with Logan too.

We’d found ourselves in a situation where our existing friend circles were significantly diminished. Wallace had Shae and Mac was working in Los Angeles. The death of Carrie had proven to Logan that he had few true friends. Of course, he had Dick. But that was _Dick._ He didn’t really count.

So for the last two years, we’ve settled into a comfortable friend routine. While Logan is away for extended periods, we keep in touch over emails and Skype, and when he returns, he is my movie/bar/couch/coffee buddy. Yes, we once dated but it was over ten years since we’d shared a bed.

He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something but then suddenly stops, hesitates and shakes his head. Instead, his hand shifts to my lower back, his large palm gently spreads out, and he pulls me closer. It’s nice, just being _close_ to someone. It helps that that someone is Logan.

As we dance in silence, I consider the near future that awaits me.

Party of one at Veronicas again.

Damn.

_______________________________________

We stay until the end—the last ones out of the building other than waitstaff. Finally taking the hint when the tablecloths came off, and we’d long ago said our goodbyes to Wallace and Shae.

The party was over.

It was time to go home.

We walk back to the room, stumbling across the footpath passing back and forth the last of the champagne in long swigs from the bottle Logan slipped into his jacket before leaving.

I look down over the hills. Vine leaves shine iridescent in the moon's light. I sneak a glance over to Logan, and his eyes are slightly glassy, focusing on the path ahead. He too seems deep in concentration.

\-------------------

Logan opens the hotel room door, and we enter in the darkness, I fumble for the light switch while he throws the key onto the dresser.

“Well I’m going to go and get changed in the bathroom, I don’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities,” he throws over his shoulder and closes the bathroom door.

That’s probably a fair call. My sensibilities are certainly fragile this time of night, especially after close contact on the dancefloor.

I unzip my dress and make an effort to place it back on a hanger before putting on a tank top and shorts pajama combo. I commandeer the bed closest to the door and slip under the sheets, then get to work on removing the numerous pins from my birdsnest of fancy wedding hair.

Logan reappears from the bathroom clad in boxer shorts and a tight white sleeveless shirt. He’s carrying two glasses of water and places one on each of our bedside tables.

Jesus Christ.

I instantly shut my eyes and shuffle down under the covers.

Sheets rustle, and he switches off the light.

I exhale a deep breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“That was a good wedding,” he muses.

I nod. Realizing the ridiculousness of a nod in the dark but I still don’t speak.

“Shae looked beautiful,” he adds.

“Yeah, Wallace is a lucky guy.”

He giggles a little, “Do you ever wonder about the couple on their wedding night?”

“What??” I ask.

“You _know_ ,” he’s using his hands to explain, I realize it’s dark, but I _know_ Logan. I’ve _known_ Logan for so many years now I can see his expressions, visualize his gesticulation without actually having to see him. “They talk it up so much for this big night of passion and romance, but I bet like 90 percent of couples are so tired afterward they just go to sleep,”

I chuckle, “90 percent?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you just making up percentages again, or is this based on an actual study?”

I hear him smile.

“I think I read it somewhere.”

“Riiiight,” I shuffle around, trying to get comfortable and turn towards his bed, staring into the blackness.

“I’m sure they’re having a _fabulous_ night.”

“Logan, can we _please_ stop talking about Wallace having sex?”

He chuckles.

“Okay.”

I ponder my next line of questioning momentarily before letting it fall out of my mouth. “Did you get Rebecca’s number?” I try to make it sound casual. Not sure I’m succeeding I sit up and take a sip of water to enhance my _don’t care about the answer_ nonchalance.

“No,” he responds after a pause. “Did you get Bretts?”

We both laugh at the question. “Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Logan adds.

He shuffles in the sheets, and I feel his body turn and face me. The twin beds are small, and I wonder how his vast frame can fit.

“Veronica,” his voice is low, quieter. It _kills_ me when he says my name like that. It takes me back to Hearst. To the Neptune Grand. To his satin sheets. I close my eyes momentarily and just enjoy the memory.

“mmm”

“Do you _really_ think of me as a brother now?”

Fuck. I let it sit in the air for a moment before responding in a whisper, “No.”

He lets out a breath, “good.”

The room grows silent for a few minutes, the only sound I can hear is the cars on the nearby highway and the incessant thumping of my own heart.

“Goodnight,” he calls out.

“Night,” I reply. Squinting my eyes shut as tight as I can. Because for a moment, I feel the hot prickling of tears start to creep under my eyelids. I don’t want to say goodnight yet, don’t want this night to be over. Maybe, just maybe, I’d felt like this evening might go in another direction, a little further away from _friends._

We lay in the blackness for what seems like hours. Logan keeps tossing and turning. I can’t seem to do anything but stare at the ceiling, _thinking._

A deep, protracted sigh comes from his side of the room. I wonder if he is _thinking_ too.

Fuck it.

I pull back my sheets and walk to his bed. He is silent, but I can feel him lift his covers to let me inside.

The bed is _small._

I lie against him, and he opens up his arm so I can lay on his chest. He wraps his big arm around me, and I snuggle myself into his nook. The limited space is making me slip a little, so he hooks his leg over mine to anchor me. He is so warm, so bare, so _Logan._ It’s been a while since I’ve been in the nook. It's undoubtedly a lot firmer than it used to be. It sure is a good nook.

We don’t speak.

With my ear against his chest, I can hear the hard thrumming of his heartbeat.

It's fast, mirroring my own.

I momentarily consider bailing, pulling back the sheets and jumping back into my own bed. But it’s so lovely, so comforting. The last few years the only thing I’ve cuddled has been my pillow.

His head moves towards me, and either gently kisses the top of my hair or sniffs it. I don’t really care. It feels so good a wide grin sweeps across my face.

“Veronica,” he whispers.

\---------------------------------------------------


	2. Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday

**Sunday**

I awake a little groggier than I’d anticipated. Champagne. She was a filthy temptress.

Large, strong arms remained wrapped around my waist. I’d relinquished the _nook_ for the _little spoon,_ and it was equally delicious. I could lick that spoon _all day long._

Logans breathing is measured, still sleeping.

After I’d somewhat recklessly climbed into his bed, nothing further had transpired from our bedtime snuggles. Apart from a little skin-to-skin action and I’ll admit, some night grinding.

“Veronica,” he’d whispered. I’d then felt his face turn toward mine and I thought, for a fleeting moment, he might kiss me.

“Yes,” I responded in my sexiest murmur.

“Goodnight,” he said and nestled his head into the pillow.

“Goodnight.”

And, despite a little disappointment on my part that the evening was drawing to a close. I decided to just _enjoy_ the arms, the _feel,_ the _Logan_ , wrapped around me for a whole 8 hours. Bliss!

To avoid any weirdness, I made the decision to peel myself from the _spoon_ and head for the shower.

Standing under the stream, I tried very hard not to _think._ Just two friends, enjoying a platonic cuddle. Nothing to see here.

Yes, I may have thought for a fleeting moment he might kiss me, _hoped_ he might. But it didn’t happen. Instead, I’m standing in the shower slightly regretting not making a move myself.

I hear the door open and freeze, mid shampoo. Thank God for the pastel blue shower curtain!

“Morning,” he groans.

“Morning,” I manage to squeak out in response. Still frozen.

So apparently we’re in, ‘waltzing in while one is in the shower zone.’ I must have missed the memo, but I’ll be sure to make note of it for the future…

I can hear him run the tap and start to brush his teeth.

“Ugh, that Champagne, I feel like death,” he mumbles, toothbrush clearly still in his mouth.

“It’s the bubbles. Poor Logan Echolls, can’t drink like you used to?” I tease.

“Nope, I’ll need to condition myself more before the next wedding,” he spits out the toothpaste and gargles, rinses.

I realize I can see him through the small crack where the shower curtain meets the tiles. Watching his reflection in the mirror as he washes his face and runs his wet fingers through his hair.

I resume washing my hair, thinking a little about this new friend zone we’d entered into. I prayed he wouldn’t turn around and pee into the toilet. As much as I appreciated these new friendly developments I wasn’t quite ready to ruin that mystique quite yet.

Thankfully, I needn't have worried. He stands up straight, glances in the mirror, directly meeting my gaze in the reflection and winks before strolling out the door.

\------------

After spending entirely too long in the shower, I head back into the room scrubbed pink, hair wet and hanging in messy clumps over my shoulders. I’d put back on jeans, a loose t-shirt and flip-flops, my feet still tender from the high heels last night. If there was any doubt my stagecoach had turned back into a pumpkin, it was short-lived. Logan sits on his bed, glancing up from his phone and smiles at me, unperturbed.

We pack our bags and tidy the room in companionable silence. Logan collects the bags, taking them out to the cars while I return the room key. The receptionist asks me if I’d enjoyed my evening. I reply yes, thankyou. If she only _knew!_

Back at the car, Logan leans against my bonnet, I press the beeper, and he strolls over and opens the door for me.

“So…”

“So…”

“Busy Tonight?” He asks

“Oh, yes, I’ve got a hot date.”

He nods, completely ignoring my comment, “Movie at mine? No champagne,” he taps his hand against his stomach gingerly.

“Sounds good,”

I hop into the driver's seat, and he closes the door, walking back to his car in long strides.

So, it looked like we were going to spend the night full of nooks, spoons, skin and bodies and not discuss it at all.

Fine.

I could live with that.

\--------------------

I spent what was left of the day catching up on housework; washing, ironing work shirts and generally trying to distract myself from my own thoughts.

It didn’t really work, but my apartment had never looked cleaner! Silver linings.

By 5 pm I was sick of myself and drove the four blocks to Logan’s. We got Thai delivered and then started making our way through a six-pack of beers and Pulp Fiction.

Logan’s apartment was a pretty standard 1 bedroom in a new block. It had all the latest gadgets, but was still reasonably small and non-descript. He wasn’t often home to enjoy it. Like any male, the only money he’d spent was on an obscenely large television and a plush sofa with recliners on each end. Everything else was pretty threadbare. Priorities.

As I settle down onto his sofa, I couldn’t begrudge it; it _is_ heavenly.

Logan passes me a heaped bowl of ice-cream and topping and plops down beside me, heaving his giant tree trunk legs on top of mine with a relaxed sigh.

“You right there?” I push against his legs. They don’t budge.

“Perfectly fine, thank you,” he shovels ice cream into his mouth, grinning.

“Whatever, I didn’t need those legs anyway.”

He presses the remote to start the movie. It was one of my favorites. I knew it word for word.

I find that his legs made the perfect ice-cream bench and rest my bowl on them, taking large, delicious spoonfuls. Soon, I’d reached the bottom of my bowl and started scraping the melty-bits onto my spoon, licking it off each time.

I sensed Logan shift and my eyes flicked to his, completely ignoring the movie and watching me intently. His mouth was hanging open a little. I froze, mid-lick.

“Please, don’t let me stop you,” he gestures back to the spoon.

I place the spoon into the bowl and wipe my face with my sleeve, “Do I have chocolate all over my face?”

“No,” His eyes glitter for a moment, and just the traces of his famed smirk crease his cheeks. He then turns back to the television and resumes watching.

I decide to leave the last of the melty-bits in my bowl and reach over, legs still atop, to place it on the coffee table.

I had to admit; I enjoyed the weight of his legs across mine. They were like a blanket, a sexy, sexy blanket. Certainly not distracting in any way.

Our friendship, since I’d returned from New York, let's call it Friendship 2.0, was not a particularly touchy-feely one. In fact, we usually went to great lengths to _avoid_ too much touching. So something had undoubtedly changed in the last 24 hours.

Dare I speculate that it was the nook?

Did he enjoy it just as much as I did?

\------------------

My eyes peek open to a blue TV screen, then peer over to a sleeping Logan. I bend my head around to check the clock. 1 am. Shit, I need to be up for work in 5 hours.

I try, ever so gracefully to shuffle out from under his legs, Logan wakes and stretches a little, lifting his legs to release me.

“It's really late, I’ve gotta get home,” I stand and straighten myself, grabbing the bowls and beer bottles from the table and taking them to the kitchen.

“No, stop don’t worry about that stuff, I’ll do it in the morning,” he turns off the TV.

I head for my jacket and start slipping it over my arms. Logan watches me, “Just crash here, it’s late. I’ve got a king bed,” he is almost pleading. Almost.

“Really?” In truth, I’m tired, and I don’t want to get in my car and drive home to my cold apartment. And, well, Logan Echolls just offered me to stay in his bed, with him. I wasn’t sure how one would actually refuse such an offer?

“Yes, really. Come on, I’ll get you some clothes.”

I follow him into the bedroom as he ruffles around in the draws and passes me a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. He’s oddly casual about it, like we just share clothes _all the time._ He offers me a new toothbrush which he pulls out of a multi-pack, and I choose not to think about why he needs multiple spare toothbrushes in his house. Then he leaves the room to let me get ready.

Soon, we’re under the covers, _his_ covers and I find myself in the dark, for the second night in a row, staring up at the ceiling.

What the hell were we doing?

He moves around on his side, tossing and turning. I’m too scared to move and take up too much space in his bed.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Go to sleep, Veronica.

Go to sleep, Veronica.

Count sheep.

Just do not think about it, don’t think about the softness of his sheets, the smell of his shampoo on the pillow, his tall frame laying next to you. Don’t!

He turns again, “come here,” he calls.

“Okay,” I mumble.

Like a moth to a flame.

And in a few shuffles, I’m there, back in the nook, back against that fast heartbeat.

His arm snakes around my back, resting on my stomach.

It doesn’t take long. Sleep comes fast and warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 is almost done and will be up soon.  
> Thank you for all the kind comments!! xx


	3. Monday

**Monday**

“Heeey Buddy,” Logan’s head peeks over the top of my cubicle. Unfortunately, I was still stuck in a cubicle in the lower levels. It appears that no matter how many cases I’d won or settlements I could make out of court, I lacked the penis required to truly propel my career. Women were few and far between in this firm, and I felt I had to go the extra mile to get recognition, and the nice upstairs glassed office.

“Yo _Buddy,”_ I repeat his curious word choice back to him.

His eyes glitter at me as he wanders around and sits down on my desk, directly on top of my paperwork. He’d come straight from the beach. Hair still wet, t-shirts, boardshorts and flip flops. I couldn’t complain, once he’d taken me to lunch in bare feet. He looked salty and delicious. I may have inadvertently licked my lips.

“Can you give me five? I’ll meet you downstairs. I just need to run this stuff up to billing,” I motion to the pile under his backside.

He salutes me and leaves, high fiving Chad in the hallway before continuing on his way. I’d been working in this office for well over a year now and not once had a colleague ever attempted to high five me.

After dropping off the documents, I walk to the lobby to find Logan leaning over the reception desk. Caitlin is looking up at him with those big doe eyes. I take a deep breath and check my homicidal tendencies, instead opting to roll my eyes so far into the back of my head they may fall out.

Approaching the desk, I cough to announce my arrival and break up the mating ritual.

“Hi Veronica,” Cailtin straightens her seat and looks at her computer screen and starts faux typing.

“Caitlin,” I nod.

Logan casually pushes away from the counter. Typical Logan, making more friends than me at my own workplace. It’s starting to feel like high school all over again.

He looks at me expectantly and shrugs. This, is Logan speak for _what’s for lunch Veronica?_

“Tacos?”

He rubs his hands together with glee. A few blocks away sits an amazing Taco truck featuring as one of our favored lunch spots.

We wander down the street and order, then wait, arguing about the next TV show we’re going to binge watch. I realize that, yet again, we’ve totally skirted around last nights bedroom antics.

Sleeping in _his clothes._

Sleeping in _his bed._

Sleeping _wrapped around him._

The way he casually mentioned this morning that I should just keep that toothbrush there, in his little green toothbrush holder, “you know, for next time.”

Right.

Okay.

If it wasn’t awkward enough that I’d awoken as the little spoon again today, with his morning erection firmly pressed into my buttocks.

Just thinking about it made my cheeks tinge pink and my heart race. Jesus, maybe this _is_ high school again?

Our tacos were ready, providing a great distraction as we find an empty plastic picnic table and sit down, barely stopping to shovel in the food.

“What are you doing this afternoon?”

Between chews he replies, “packing,” and doesn’t look up, focusing instead on collecting a fallen piece of meat from his paper.

Damn, only three days left before he goes.

Three stupid days, days I’m stuck in an office.

I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to think about it. I did tend to get this way before he deployed. A little sad, a little angry. Once I picked a huge fight with him the day before he left. I don’t even remember what it was about. I thought that maybe being angry at him while he was gone would make it easier. I was wrong.

We sat in silence for a while, chewing, focusing on the food intently.

“Do you know where you are going?”

He screws up his paper into a tight little ball, “yes,”

“Can you tell me?”

“No.”

“Why.”

“You know I can’t Veronica.”

I screw up my face in anger and he laughs.

“Is it far?”

Still laughing Logan replies, shaking his head a little “It’s always far.”

“Is it somewhere dangerous?”

Ignoring my question completely, “Wallace will be back next week,” he offers, trying to be helpful.

I scoff, “yeah, back to start his wedded life, not back to hang out with _me._ ”

He leans across the table and touches my hand for a moment. It’s supposed to be a comforting hand touch, I know, but I flinch a little at _daylight_ contact, and he pulls it away quickly.

I try to lighten the mood, “I’ll just hang with sparky,” patting my handbag on the table.

“I always have this vision of you sleeping, cuddling your taser,” he teased. A _cuddling_ reference hey, he was brave.

“Fuck off, you know I keep sparky _next_ to my bed. Don’t want to scare off all my boyfriends.”

He laughs, “Yes, of course, nothing dampens the throws of passion like glancing to the side table and spotting a taser,” he flinches a little, pretending to see it lying there.

“I don’t know Echolls; you seem to be doing a _whole_ lot of thinking about what’s going on in my bed,” I challenge.

A broad grin lit his face, and he rubs his neck a little nervously. “Just concerned for my fellow man.”

“Right, well, let me promise,” I hold up my hand, “I will not injure any men in my bed while you’re gone.”

“Excellent.”

“Notice how I only said ‘ in my bed’ I make no promises outside of that realm,” I giggled, tucking my hair behind my ears.

“The men of Neptune tremble in fear,” he says, his gaze watching my hair tuck intently.

He picks up our rubbish and disposes of it in the bin. We walk back to the firm, our pace considerably slower on the return. His arm occasionally grazes mine as we stroll, each time leaving goosebumps in its wake.

It’s nice that we can tease each other about normal things. No murders to solve (other than in the courtroom, much easier), no homicidal friends or relatives, no family melodrama, no twisted love triangles. Logan no longer lived the son-of-a-movie-star’s life, he earned a regular wage, like a regular person. We’d been through so much craziness in our formative years that I relished this ‘normal’. Taco lunches and sexual tension, not life’s most grueling and terrible challenges.

We could now just be Logan and Veronica.

Friends.

No drama.

\-------------

Chad deposits another hefty file on my desk.

“We’re ordering pizzas, what do you want?” he asks indifferently.

I shake my head. “No, I’m leaving in a minute,” still typing furiously.

Chad looks at me with indignation, “You’re going to have to cancel whatever exciting plans you’ve got Veronica. Mr Davis called earlier. The deposition needs to be filed by 9 am. We need to finish it tonight.”

My stomach drops.

“But we had the extension,” I plead.

He shakes his head, “Judge opposed it, former timelines now apply.”

“Fuck,” I spit, a little louder than necessary.

“Calm down! Your boyfriend can wait.”

“He’s NOT my boyfriend,”

Chad backs away a little, holding his hands up.

“Fine, okay!” He turns and walks away.

“I’ll have pepperoni,” I yell toward his retreating figure.

\------------

I look at the clock and groan, picking up my phone.

 **8.45pm – From Veronica:** Stuck in office, deposition all night. ☹ Raincheck for tomorrow?

 **8.45pm – From Logan:** Really??

 **8.45pm – from Veronica:** Really…

 **8.46pm – from Logan:** What am I going to do with the three-course meal I prepared?

 **8.46pm – From Veronica:** Ha-ha

 **8.46pm – From Logan:** Do I watch movie solo, or wait?

 **8.47pm – From Veronica:** Which movie?

 **8.47pm – From Logan:** Big Lebowski

 **8.47pm – from Veronica:** You WAIT!

 **8.48pm – From Logan:** Message Received.

I put my phone back on my desk with a huff and continue the riveting tasks.

Highlighting, typing, highlighting, typing.

 **9.36pm – from Logan:** But seriously, what am I going to do? Who will I cuddle with tonight?

My breath hitches a little, did I read that correctly? I put the phone ridiculously close to my face to re-read it, only about ten times.

 **9.39pm – From Veronica:** I do not know what you are talking about.

 **9.39pm – From Logan:** Fine, deny it.

 **9.40pm – From Veronica:** Do I need to go over the rules? We DO NOT TALK ABOUT IT.

Sitting, in suspended animation, stating at my phone. Watching him read the message and the little ‘bleeep’ to let me know he’d responded sent tingles down my spine.

 **9.41pm – from Logan:** WE ARE NOT TALKING (technically)

 **9.43pm – from Veronica:** I’m very busy and important. Leave me alone.

 **9.43pm – From Logan:** Yeah yeah. Still haven’t solved my cuddle dilemma…

He had clearly had a few too many beers. I could just see him sitting on the couch on his phone, all smug and sexy thinking he could rile me up with his messages. Cheeky bastard.

I pick up my phone and put it into my desk drawer. Much safer there, no distractions.

Back to work.

Highlighting, typing, highlighting, typing.

I can hear the phone ‘bleeeep’ and vibrate inside the draw.

Ignore it, Ignore it, Ignore it.

I open the drawer and pick it up. Wow, I held myself back for a whopping 25 seconds. Great job, Veronica!

 **9.45pm – From Logan:** I’m eating ice-cream.

 **9.46pm – From Veronica:** I’m working… or at least attempting too. Keep. Getting. Interrupted.

 **9.46pm – From Logan:** I’m thinking about your spoon last night…

Holy shit. I can’t stop myself, the widest grin sweeps across my face, and I cover my mouth. How the fuck am I supposed to respond to that? Best I don’t. Any response to _that_ would be a bad idea. I place the phone right back in the drawer. I hear it vibrate a few more times but ignore it. I was never going to finish work at this rate.

Refilling my coffee cup I stroll back to my desk and casually open the draw.

 **10.25pm – From Logan:** Fine, ignore me

 **10.27pm – From Logan:** Veronica?

 **10.33pm – From Logan:** …..??

 **11.17pm – From Logan:** Going to bed now. All alone. ☹

I better respond, don’t want to be rude…

 **11.19pm –From Veronica:** Are you trying to make me think about you in bed?

 **11.20pm – From Logan:** Maybe … Is it working?

Remember Veronica. This is friendship 2.0, boldly going places we hadn’t before. Time to be bold.

 **11.20pm – from Veronica:** Maybe

Look at your computer Veronica. _Do your work_.

 **11.27pm – From Logan:** Okay I’m in bed now

 **11.28pm – From Veronica:** What are you wearing?

I type and hit send before my mind could stop it. Noooooooo! This was a little _too_ bold for my liking. It must have been like some pavlovian response. Logan mentions bed and my mind instantly wonders what he’s wearing. Desperately I try to delete the message. It’s too late, he’s read it.

Maybe I can crawl into my desk draw myself? My eyes squint closed.

 **11.28pm – From Veronica:** Sorry, typo. Ignore.

 **11.28pm – From Logan:** Interesting typo??

 **11.29pm – From Veronica:** Goodnight Logan

 **11.29pm – From Logan:** Goodnight. X

I stare at that little x a lot longer than I’d care to admit.

Right, back to work. Concentrate.

After a while, I’m finally making progress and meet in the conference room with Chad and some of the junior partners to finalize the brief for presentation. We start collating our arguments.

“Veronica, you’re phone is buzzing,” Chad casually gestures to my phone, mid-conversation.

 **12.41am – From Logan:** I can’t sleep

 **12.43am – From Veronica:** Have a glass of milk. Count sheep?

 **12.44am – From Logan:** Not working.

 **12.44am – From Logan:** Have been conditioned to be held to sleep.

I try not to react in front of my work colleagues. Nothing to see here, just casually texting at almost 1am.

 **12.45am – From Veronica:** Good News, in 3 days you’ll have a whole shipload of friends to cuddle you to sleep.

 **12.46am – From Logan:** Not. Funny.

 **12.46am – From Logan:** Are you seriously STILL WORKING? Or are you just avoiding me?

 **12.47am – From Veronica:** Still working… clearly not avoiding you…

 **12.47am – From Logan:** When you finish, feel free to come by. You know where the spare key is.

Tempting. Very tempting.

 **12.48am – From Veronica:** Goodnight Logan. X

I added the x. I was feeling brave.

\-------------------

We finally finish at about 2 am. As much as I wanted to go to Logans, _really_ wanted to go. I had about four hours left of the night to sleep before I had to be back in the office making final preparations before presenting this to the judge. I need a shower, and I need clean clothes.

My apartment is cold and dark. I wash and snuggled under the sheets. I’d always loved this bed. I bought it with my first paycheck from the new firm. It had a super soft pillowtop and Tempurpedic innersprings. But, tonight it fails to excite me. The truth is, I am lonely. I’d been lonely for some time now. Just those few nights with Logan had reminded me how much I missed human touch, human connection. And how much I missed _him._


	4. Tuesday

**Tuesday**

I leave the courtroom in desperate need of a coffee. Thankfully the judge was satisfied with our submission.

Beyond tired, my eyes stung from a severe lack of sleep. After tossing and turning, when rest finally came, it was fitful and broken.

Graciously accepting my triple shot grande from the bespeckled teenage barista I recheck my phone.

Nothing.

After nibbling at the edges of text-sex last night, I thought the least he could do was make early contact. Maybe he was mad that I didn’t accept his invitation for nook? To be honest, I was a little mad at myself. There was only _very_ limited chances left for nook before he leaves.

Stupid, Stupid Veronica.

Blowing on my coffee to cool it, I decided to bite the bullet and call. Limited time meant that there was no room for waiting around.

Calling seemed like the most practical option. I didn’t want to get lost in the texting rabbit-hole that peppered last nights antics.

Logan answers in 3 rings.

“Mars,” he chimes.

“Echolls.”

“What’s up?” I ask.

“The usual. Packing, preparations, procrastination.”

“Sounds about right. Did you end up getting any sleep last night?” I keep my voice as casual as possible.

“Eventually,” his voice drops an octave, “Work finished?”

“Yes, thank God! I think I’ll even get to finish a bit early today.”

“Great! I’m thinking bar? I need to enjoy some alcoholic beverages before months of deprivation.”

I wasn’t sold. Surely we could drink at home? Couches, beers, nooks. I grumble a little, and he laughs.

“Come on… We don’t have to stay long. Please? Chicken wings, Jalapeno poppers, mozzarella sticks, beer?”

 _Now_ he was speaking my language. That Echolls, he knows how to tempt me.

“Fine,”

“Usual place?”

“Yep. Six?”

“Sounds Good and _walk._ No cars tonight. We’re _drinking._ ” He demands.

“OK,”

We’re quiet for a moment.

“Hey Logan,” I challenge, “how was that ice-cream?”

“Fucking delicious,” he replies, his voice gravelly.

I hang up with a smile.

\---------------------

I get to the bar half an hour early. Hair blown out I’d just been sitting at home, waiting. It made sense to head in early and get some drinks in before direct contact. Things had escalated last night. Words were said (well, typed). I wasn’t sure where exactly that was going to put us today.

I haven't been there long before a man sits next to me and we start chatting. A little bored I figured it would fill in the time while I wait for Logan. His name is Chris, and he is a freelance writer, he isn't staying at the bar long. He wastes no time scrawling his number on a napkin and handing it to me. He has mousy brown hair with a medium build. He isn't vile, not even in the least. He is kind of cute, a little Piz-esque, but nothing I can’t handle.

I accept the napkin because, let's be honest, I'm not looking for a long term thing. I am single, I have _needs,_ as clearly indicated by my recent wanton behavior with a certain broad-chested _buddy._ I suspected that Chris might be able to fulfill at least some of them.

Unfortunately, the moment comes to an abrupt close when said broad-chested _buddy_ appears. And he’s not looking particularly friendly. I shove the napkin into my back pocket.

“Hey,” he quips, looking Chris directly in the eyes.

Chris holds out his hand in a friendly gesture. “Nice to meet you, I’m Chris.”

Logan accepts the handshake reluctantly. “Logan,” he mumbles looming his wide frame over Chris.

“Can I get you a beer, Logan?” Chris asks. Logan looks him up and down and turns towards the bar completely ignoring him and orders two whiskeys.

Oh, God.

I smile apologetically at Chris and touch Logan's arm, hoping to calm him as I explain, “Logan and I were catching up for dinner tonight.’

Chris, looking a little afraid starts backing away immediately, “no worries guys. Enjoy. I hope to hear from you, Veronica,” he winks and leaves.

I wave him off and spin on my chair. Logan passes me a whiskey glass with a dark stare.

“Who’s your friend?”

“No-one, I just met him,” I shake my head like it’s nothing, take the glass and almost skull it all.

“But you took his number,” he motions to my back pocket.

“I was just being nice.”

He tilts his head a little, “Hmmm, Veronica Mars being nice to strangers?… well, I guess miracles do happen.”

“Shut up,” I nudge against him, and just a hint of a smile creaks across his face.

“Are you going to call him when I’m gone?” his voice is stoic, but I can hear the tinge of pain lurking behind it.

I shake my head, “No.” The _last_ thing I needed was to ruin whatever _this_ was between us for our last few nights over some idiot I met in a bar.

I take the napkin out and rip it up, stuff it into my empty glass and hand it to the bartender.

“You won’t be needing it anyway,” he slings over his shoulder as he heads for an empty booth.

I order a couple more double whiskeys before I follow him over because, clearly, I was going to need it.

\-----------------

Satisfied and belly filled to bursting with an excessive amount of greasy food we sit back a little in the booth. I consider popping the top button on my jeans, but I don’t want to send the wrong message, after all, I am a _lady._

“You want to undo your jeans, don’t you?”

I laugh out loud. “That’s fucking creepy Echolls, _stop reading my mind!”_ I point my finger into his face.

“Its really not,” he grins, “You’re a creature of habit, you would have done it at home,”

“True,” I nod and look at those sparkly eyes smiling at me and just _enjoy_ them for a moment. His mood had improved considerably with the destruction of the napkin.

“I like the hair,” I motion to his head. I noticed as soon as I saw him that he’d had the customary pre-deployment head shave. Coupled with a few days of unshaven beard and it looked... _inviting._

He runs both of his hands back and forth through his hair. I, in turn, run my eyes over the bulging triceps peeking out at me from under his black t-shirt.

“Dick took me to his hairdresser, $65 for a buzz cut I could have done myself,”

“The lives of the rich and famous eh?”

“Oh, I got some photos from Wallace today,” I unlock my phone and pass it to him. Shae and Wallace enjoying coconut drinks, poolside sunbathing and a photo of their lavish honeymoon suite.

He flicks through the photos, “Bastards,” he chuckles and passes the phone back to me, fingers grazing mine briefly.

“Yeah, rub it in!”

We sit in silence for a moment, finishing our drinks,

“Do you wanna come to mine? We can watch Big Lebowski.” I offer, my place is the most practical choice as it’s closest to the bar. I do a quick mental calculation that I’ve had the equivalent of about ten drinks, so I was already a little buzzed. The closer, the better. I _may_ have also changed my sheets and tidied everything, you know, _just in case._

“Sure,” he stands and puts out his hand to pull me from the booth. His fingers lace with my own, and we leave the bar and head into the darkness outside.

The air is balmy with the remnants of the hot summer day.

We stroll in silence, his soft, strong hand wrapped around my own.

It appears we’re in phase 2, _hand-holding_. I like this phase.

\----------------------

I put the movie on and pour us some white Russians but its more of a gesture because I’m tired and a little drunk. I don’t really have much intention of watching it.

Logan’s sitting on the couch with his feet on my coffee table. I unbutton the top of my jeans and lay down on the couch with my head in his lap. I figure, he can put his legs on mine, why can’t I put my head in his?

He shifts a little, surprised at my move. I hope it’s as distracting for him as it was for me.

It was warm and comfortable, and when he places his fingers onto my head to gently stroke my hair, I am asleep in minutes.

\----------

I can feel myself being lifted and carried, I’m sleepy and can’t be bothered fighting it.

Logan places me into my clean sheets and tucks me in.

I peek through heavy lids and watch him remove his shoes, pants, shirt, and climb in next to me. I breathe a silent sigh of relief.

He’s staying.

His arms snake around me, and he brings me to his chest, his _bare_ chest.

It's so warm and smells so _fucking_ good I struggle to keep up the guise of being asleep. I want to _inhale_ him.

Slowly he leans down towards me, and his lips meet the corner of my mouth. His stubble grazes my cheek. Soft and slow he lazily pulls back and tucks me into his chest. Butterflies explode through my stomach, and my entire body tingles with electricity.

“Goodnight,” he whispers.


	5. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday

**Wednesday**

Daylight cracks through my blinds, and I wake enveloped in his warmth.

It was a delicious envelope, and I _really_ wanted to lick the stamp.

But the need to pee was getting desperate. I’d awoken a few times in the night but couldn’t bring myself to actually leave the bed. It was time. I need to leave the spoon.

I gently take his wrist and lift his heavy arm from around my waist and commando roll, ever so gracefully off the bed, trying not to wake him. He stirs a little but seems to settle. I enjoy a long hard look at him, my sheets nestled around his hips, resting peacefully.

Veronica, toilet!

After I finish in the bathroom, I grab my phone and creep out the door into the lounge. I didn’t know how today was going to play out. I knew how I _wanted_ it to. But, to be honest, each day this week had surprised me a little.

I made my first big decision. I called the office and faked a stomach bug. Sorry guys, I wasn’t going to waste my last day with Logan stuck in a stupid office.

Throwing my phone onto the couch, I creep right back into bed, lifting his arm and re-entering the spoon.

He responds by pulling me tighter, and I knew I’d made the right decision.

\----------------

The smell of eggs and coffee rouses me again at almost 10.

I quickly change and step into the kitchen to find my shirtless friend scrambling eggs.

Logan spots me in the doorway and smiles. “Morning sleepyhead.”

“Morning.”

“Did you sleep better last night?”

I nod. “You?” I ask.

“Most definitely,” he turns back to the eggs, gives them a quick stir and passes me a coffee mug. “I realized you’re going to be a bit late for work so I thought I’d make a good breakfast before you leave.”

“I rang in sick. No work today,” I give him a double thumbs up.

He bounces a little, like an excited schoolboy. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. If anyone asks I’m spending the day with my head over the toilet.”

His mouth forms into an O, and he waggles his finger at me and does a little spin. In a split second he has morphed into high-school Logan, all perky and gangly and skippy.

“So, I’m crashing your last day. What are we doing?”

He spoons the eggs onto two plates, “I was planning on going for a last surf, but I can be easily swayed. What do you want to do?”

I grab us two forks, and we sit down at the table popping the eggs into my mouth. They’re a little overcooked. But, let's be honest, who the fuck cares when they’re prepared by a shirtless Logan? You can’t be such a fine physical specimen _and_ a great cook.

“Can I come with you?” I ask.

He scrunches up his nose a little and looks confused. “You? Come to surf?”

“Yes. Well, I won’t surf, but I could swim.”

It’s true, despite living by the beach most of my life I was certainly not a water creature.

“Do you even own a bathing suit?” he asks.

“Yes, I do Mr Echolls,” and I waggle my eyebrows at him.

“Well then, by all means, let's go to the beach.”

\-----------------

I encouraged Logan to go ahead and catch a few waves, promising to join him soon. It was a good opportunity to people watch and layout in the sun for a little.

As soon as I’d donned my teeny-tiny bikinis, I realized it had been _years_ since I’d worn them and they were probably a bit _much_ for a woman in her 30s. When I expressed my concerns, Logan’s suggestion was to _just remove them altogether._ Logan Echolls, always the problem solver.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d played hooky from work. I’m not sure if I’d _ever_ done it before. Only a few hours into the day and I made a note to try and do it more often. It was good to feel a little free and just go with the flow.

After a while I notice Logan motioning to me, so I wander down into the waves. He certainly didn’t seem to be doing much surfing today, mainly bobbing around and paddling to and fro.

The water is quite cold and very _wet._ Thankfully the waves aren’t particularly rough as I was sure I’d just be desperately fighting to keep my boobs inside this bikini top. I wade in deeper, and Logan paddles over to me.

“Waves are pretty shit today,” he rubs his face with his hands and through his spikey wet crew cut.

I breast-stroke over to him and try to hop onto his board. The water is out of my depth, and I overestimated my ability to get up and slipped back into the water like a drowning buffoon.

Logan laughs and grabs my hand hiking me up onto the smoothly waxed surface. This time I grab the other side and throw a leg over to stabilize myself.

“You make it look so easy. I can’t even _climb_ onto the board.”

He shuffles down and replicates my position on the other side of the surfboard, and we bob in the waves. We’re silent for some time, just listening to the blop-blop of the waves hitting the underside of the board. It’s nice to be able to be silent with someone.

“Do you ever wonder how things would be different?” I ask.

“Like?”

I think for a moment, trying to articulate myself, “What if Carrie never died? It set off a chain reaction of things that might not have happened otherwise. I wouldn’t have come here. We might never have spoken again. You and Carrie might still be together.”

He looks at me curiously and adds, “and you would still be with Piz.”

I shake my head silently. No. No matter the situation I don’t think I would still be with Piz.

Logan's arm is close to mine so I let my fingertip start drawing little circles on the back of his hand.

“I wouldn’t be with Carrie,” he says.

I let my fingertip start to roam, slowly, slowly up his arm. Over the soft arm hair. His eyes follow my hand intently. My head rests against the board like a pillow as I look up and watch the little beads of water dotted across his chest.

“What if we weren’t friends at all? Seems weird now to even imagine it.” My fingertip traces all the way to his shoulder and then turns around and works its way back down again, a little wet trail. We’re both watch it. It seems easier than looking at each other. Inch by inch it moves.

“We don’t need to imagine it, Mars. It happened. You were forced to be my friend again,” he finally looks at me and laughs. “Against your better judgment.”

I nod. True enough.

“But we were never really just friends before, were we? This is the first time we’ve been actual _proper_ friends.”

I pull my fingertip from his hand and let it rest in the water. My fingerprint still feeling hot in the cold ocean.

His hand lifts, and he starts tracing a fingertip down my face. Over my forehead, tapping the tip of my nose quickly. All the while, his face grinning cheekily at his creative response to my arm touching.

“Let's be honest Logan. I _tolerate_ you,” I wink at him as his fingertip passes my nose and runs over my lips and down to my chin.

I _know_ it’s a playful move. But suddenly, it feels a lot less than the tickle trace of a fingertip. It starts to feel heavier.

It traces right back up again, this time, when he crosses my lips, I dart out my tongue. It's an automatic response. I’m not sure I could control it if I tried.

Suddenly his finger freezes on my lips, this time my mouth opens a little and the tip of it sits there. I flick my tongue out a little further and gently kiss it, sucking it lightly.

I’ve done a _lot_ of things with Logan in my life. Why, does this little move send a jolt of electricity right into my core?

Dark eyes look back at me as he floats in the water, his finger in suspended animation.

In an instant, he retracts his finger, releases his grip on the board and drops into the ocean. My mouth still hanging open a little.

Head breaking free of the water he runs his hands over his face, “I’m hungry, should we head in and get some lunch.”

My face flushes instantly with embarrassment. “Sure, let's go.”

\---------------------------------------------------

I open the door and we wander inside, still wrapped in our beach towels and sandy.

Logan’s demeanor had changed a little since the surfboard lounging, he seems a little clipped. I wonder if I’d taken it a bit too far? But then, _he_ was the one who kissed me last night. Granted, he didn’t know that I _knew_.

“Feel free to take a shower,” I offer. Fully intending to recoup my end of the _waltzing into the shower_ rule. I’d been lying in wait for days now. 

“Thanks.”

He opens the fridge and takes out the sodas for us, passing me one. His eyes won't make contact with mine, and he keeps glancing out the window. Is he looking for an escape?

We crack the cans together in silence and take a drink.

“Is everything okay?” I ask a little trepidacious.

He laughs bitterly and shakes his head. “No, it’s not Veronica.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologize, unmoving. I want to touch his arm, to look in his eyes, but he seems angry. _Old Logan angry_ and I decide to stay put. Old Logan was prone to blowouts.

His voice softens instantly, “you have _nothing_ to be sorry for,” and his eyes meet mine, sad and sincere.

“Is it because you’re leaving?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Is it because of _this_? _”_ I motion back and forth between us.

“Yes,” he doesn’t break eye-contact. Doesn’t move.

“I’m scared too,” I offer up honesty, because, when all things were laid bare, it had to come out.

“I’m not scared Veronica,” he sighs, “I’m fucking terrified.”

My eyes fall to the ground, and I focus on the tiles. Burnt orange tiles with little ridges, some of them are chipped. All lined up in their perfect little rows. I really hate those tiles.

“All this week, _hell,_ all this _year_ I’ve been fighting this constant battle. I desperately want you, Veronica, I want you so bad it fucking hurts,” he holds his hand to his chest, clutching against his wet shirt. “But I don’t think I’m right for you.”

My eyes mist and my throat hitches, I didn’t expect that, and a shoot of pain runs through me.

“You deserve the best V,” he pauses, looking into my eyes “and it’s not me.”

“Logan!” I plead, and he holds up his hand to quiet me.

“I’m sorry I let things go too far this week, it was the wedding, and the close contact and I started to lose my head and my focus.” Fingers run through his hair nervously.

He continues, “We tried before, and I ruined it again and again. You are my best friend, I _need_ you in my life. I can’t live without you. You know that, right?”

I nod. That was what held me back. Always. The fear, the terror that I’d lose the best friend I ever had. It was the one thing that kept me from climbing up that nook and devouring him.

“Logan, before it was different. That was _ten years ago._ We were young and stupid and going through shit most people don’t experience in their entire lifetime.”

Silently he shakes his head.

“Don’t you _feel it?”_ I ask.

“Of course I feel it.”

“That, we’re …. we’re“ I’m searching for the word.

And of course, he finds the word that I can’t. He whispers, “unfinished.”

It sits in the air between us.

“V. You are the smartest, funniest, most beautiful.” He takes another deep breath. “You’re the best person I know. I’m just a damaged movie-stars son—numerous false murder charges under my belt. I can’t escape the chaos; it follows me everywhere I go. You’ve made something amazing of yourself, worked so hard through college, and you’re in this great place in your career. I do one fucked up thing, and it can bring your whole world down,”

“Logan,” It’s my turn to silence him. I hold up my hand and stalk towards him, he backs up to the counter. “I cannot _stand_ any other person on the planet except _you_. You are my best friend, my worst enemy, you challenge me and drive my fucking crazy Logan. and I _am_ going to kiss you. I am not going to let you leave tomorrow without me kissing you,”

“Veronica.”

“Shut up!” I yell. My feet taking the last brave step towards him.

He shuts up—a miracle in itself.

“I’m going to kiss you now, and if you don’t want me to, you’re going to have to stop me,” I push myself up onto my toes and look at him. His eyes suddenly turn dark, hooded. His tongue peeks out and licks his lips. My lips press against his, it’s gentle and brief. I want to give him the opportunity to refuse, but at the same time desperately _need_ it to continue.

Pulling back, I look into his eyes. His chest is rising and falling in deep, labored breaths. I search his face for signs of doubt, and I find none.

In a heartbeat, he places his hands on the side of my face and pulls me to him, crashing his lips into mine with the desperation I feel down to my toes.

I kiss him like it was my oxygen. Like I rely on it for survival.

My tongue sweeps over his again and again, and he groans, pulling me closer. Our bodies now flush together.

Slowly we each pull away a little, foreheads still resting together, trying to catch our breath and regain a shred of composure.

His eyes had turned to the darkest of chocolate, and we stare _into_ each other, separated by an inch.

“Kiss me again,” he whispers, almost a growl.

The words alone cause a jolt of desire to course through me, straight to my core. This was _it._

I pounce back on him and assault him with kisses. Logan's hands find my ass, lifts my off the floor, and I crawl up him, wrapping my legs around his. He carries me directly to my bedroom, not stopping for air on the way. And in a moment I’m on the bed, his heavy body pressed into me.

I tilt my hips towards him, grinding myself against the hard length in his boardshorts.

Logan breaks the kiss and pushes himself up over me, carrying his weight on those gloriously _thick_ arms.

He takes a deep breath, “We need to slow down,” he pants again, “Or this isn’t going to last long.”

I laugh. Who said I wanted it to last long? It felt like my insides were bursting out of me. I’d waited _ten_ years for this. My itch was _well_ past needing a scratch.

“Logan,” I reach up and grab his shirt in my hands, “NOW!”

It a heartbeat his lips are back on mine. Ravaged. Desperate. I start to claw at his clothes, reaching for the bottom of the singlet and pulling it over his head. Logan mirrors my move, but slowly. He inches off my singlet, leaving a trail of kisses on all the freshly exposed skin. I genuinely feel like I might die before he finishes.

The rest of our clothes don’t last long.

Above me, he shuffles and positions himself. Pausing he locks his eyes with mine, his hand cupping my face.

“I love you, Veronica,” he speaks the words with such sincerity and conviction that my eyes glaze with tears for a moment.

“I love _you,_ ” I reply. He smiles the broadest smile, leans down and kisses me again before filling me with his glorious length. 

I hold my breath for a moment, convinced that I might melt.

He starts painfully slow, I writhe my hips towards him, encouraging him deeper. We grip each other in desperation, letting his measured thrusts increase in pace.

My eyes feast on the deliciousness above me, and I run my hands all over his back, clawing at him to pull him closer, if that’s even _possible._

Tingles race from my toes to my core as my orgasm crashes through me. I can tell that he feels it, and he joins me letting the waves run through our bodies.

It is not like this with _anyone else._ It never has been.

\----------------

I spend the afternoon sampling the delights that I’d missed for the last ten years. I paid special attention to the chest and shoulders that I really felt won the ‘most improved’ award. Of course, I was sure not to neglect his delicious manhood, which remained reasonably unchanged in both size and skill.

His tongue made every effort to traverse my entire body on the subsequent rounds. Masterful flicks of his tongue were more than enough to send me over the edge and gripping his head between my thighs in ecstasy. He confessed that was the thing he missed most and I certainly couldn’t argue.

I could feel the minutes ticking, the sun traveling across the summer sky. Logan covered the digital bedside clock with his boxer shorts in an effort to stop me from checking it.

But, even covered, time was still passing.

Logan was in my bed, naked, on top of me, underneath me, behind me, inside me.

And tomorrow he would be gone.

And I’d be alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Logan leaves tomorrow :(


	6. Thursday

**Thursday**

**\-------------**

**5:00 am**

Logan’s phone alarm goes off.

He sleeps through it for a little while, and I lean over him and turn it off.

“No, Veronica,” he mumbles into the pillow.

I shush him, “Go to sleep,” curling back around his nude form. It had been an eventful night. I felt like I could sleep for another day.

“I have to get up.”

I squeeze him tighter, “No.”

“Don’t go, Court Marshall, then jail, is that what you want?”

My nose screws up as he turns to face me, “No,” I relent, releasing my grip the tiniest bit.

A tiny kiss falls upon my nose before he turns and I watch that backside, the backside dreams are made of, wander into the bathroom. Suddenly, I’m not so tired and get out of bed and follow it, like a magnet, to its location behind the shower curtain.

Last night had ended with us falling asleep early, as is usually the case when you engage in an afternoon of extremely vigorous exercise. I’d come up hungry and for air at 6 pm realizing we’d forgone lunch, to which Logan interjected deviously that he, in fact, had eaten plenty. We relocated to Logan’s apartment, stopping to get takeout on the way, so that he could awake in his own apartment ready for his early morning departure. It was an exquisite evening spent together, which ended in many nooks and spoons. It did not, however, end in any further conversation surrounding _us_ and what this all _meant._

I was reluctant to engage in any conversation that might remind Logan of his reasonings for not pursuing a relationship with me. We were running low on time, and I was terrified it would all be destroyed, my world utterly shattered with a few small words. So, we did what we do best - Ignore it. At least temporarily.

So I soap his back for him, take my time soaping his chest long and hard.

Can’t let him go to work dirty.

And he kisses me like he used to. All arms, and hands and grabbing my face desperately in his palms. And he lifts me like I’m paper and presses me against the tiles, sliding inside me under the hot shower stream. Moaning my name over and over again as he comes inside me.

“Veronica.”

\-------------

**5:45 am**

I climb back into the bed. Naked, wet and sticking to his sheets.

The morning sun is starting to peek through the blinds. I suspect it's going to be another beautiful summer day. A day perfect for sailing. Perfect for Logan to sail away.

Logan comes out, a towel wrapped around his waist and sits on the edge of the bed, his eyes examining me.

My instant reaction is to pull the sheets up and cover myself a little more.

“No,” he pulls them back down to my waist, grinning mischievously.

“I just want to remember you like this, in my bed.” He holds up his fingers as a photographer would size up a scene. “I’ve got a lot of time ahead of me, in a tin can, surrounded by mostly men. I’m hoping this memory will get me through the long nights,” his eyes turn dark with lust.

As he continues to study me, I feel his gaze and heat travels through my body. Everywhere his eyes go, warm follows in its wake. I no longer feel self-conscious. Everything about him makes me feel safe and protected. 

He stalks across the bed, hovering above me. Eyes locked he asks, “How, pray tell, Miss Mars am I supposed to leave my house when you are in it… like _this?”_

“Don’t you see? I’m trying to lure you into my web.” I run my fingers up his arm like a spider.

“It’s working,”

“Good.”

He traces a trail of kisses from the base of my neck, to my clavicle, to my lips. Like little whispers, they tickle my skin. My hands run down his chest, feeling the light down of hair, his tight muscles clench a little under my touch.

Logan reaches over and picks up his phone, “Can I take a photo?” he asks carefully, eyebrows raised. “I promise to protect it with my life and look at it only fifty times each day,”

I laugh, because of course he can take a photo. He could take a kidney if he wanted it.

“Sure,” I nod.

He moves down to the end of the bed, and I adjust myself a little, looking over at the camera in my most alluring manner. He clicks the shutter and inspects the photo, smiling. “Perfection,” he mutters before he drops the phone and crawls back up the bed.

His lips are back on mine, slowly slipping his tongue in and out to tease my own. His hand trails from my exposed hip, past my waist and his palm surrounds my breast, fingers swirling around my nipples. I groan into his mouth, both from pleasure and from the sheer frustration that this cannot go any further, there is no time.

Logan breaks the kiss, yells in frustration “ARGH!” rolling off me, “Stupid international diplomacy! How will the world save itself if I’m not there to cool tensions and patrol the seas for you and your country?”

I laugh. “Where is Superman when you need him? It would make this all much easier,”

He scoffs, “What are you saying? I _am_ superman,” and laughs at his own joke while pulling on his boxers over his erection.

Little does he know, I think he may be right.

\-----------------

**6.15 am**

I throw on one of Logan’s old t-shirts, make us coffee and search through his cupboards for something edible. 

He appears behind me, “Sorry, I didn’t get any food. Not going to be here to eat it.”

I turn to see him dressed in his Service Dress and take a sharp intake of breath. It still shocks me every time, _this_ Logan. And of course, somehow this is the same man who thinks he’s not enough.

“That’s fine. Coffee is a food group.” I say, sitting down at his kitchen bench.

He takes the coffee in his hands and sips it slowly, sitting down next to me.

“Why don’t you stay? I’ll feel better leaving if I know you’re here, in my bed,” those eyes are playful, but sadness lingers in the background.

I shake my head, “No, I need to go home. I have to work today.” I didn’t plan on wasting any more sick days when he wasn’t going to be around to enjoy them.

We sit in silence, sipping. I can actually hear the clock above his fridge tick, tick, ticking, like a sick joke.

“An uber is picking me up in ten minutes,” he says, almost in a whisper.

I have something I need to say, but I’m having trouble bringing it from my brain to my lips. It stumbles out of my mouth nervously. “Logan, I need to tell you that you’re not chaos. I’m not scared of you. You are an incredible guy who has completely turned his life around. You have this incredible career; you’re respected and smart and funny and kind. You need to stop letting what happened in the past define you. You aren’t your Dad, or your Mom, or what happened with Lilly, or Felix, or Carrie. Not ONE of those things was your fault. Yes, you have shitty luck sometimes, but you’re the good guy in all this.”

He hangs his head and looks into his coffee. “Then why do I always feel like the bad guy?”

And there it is. The inevitability of Logan being unable to escape his own head, always his own worst enemy.

I reach over and squeeze his hand. “You need to focus on the good things in your life. The good you’ve become from all the heartache.”

“You know I did it all for you, right?”

I shake my head, “Don’t say that Logan.”

“Okay, I won't say it.” His voice drops to almost a whisper, “but it’s true.”

My heart sings a little song as I look into those eyes.

He finishes his coffee, stands and puts the cup in the sink, resting against the bench rocking back and forth a little.

“I’m going to say something Veronica, and I need you not to interrupt me. Can you do that?”

I laugh, “Depends on what you say.”

He grins, eyes glimmering.

“Veronica, I love you, but,”

I open my mouth, and he instantly holds up his hand, stopping. “No. No speaking. We don’t have much time, and I need to get this out.”

I close my mouth and wait, terrified of the _but_ that followed his words.

“I love you. And I will love you no matter what, but maybe this is a good time to think about what you want. I’m going to be gone, and I don’t know how long for. You should use this time to think about us, if you want to go down this path with me. I can’t promise it will be easy. Go out there, see if there is anyone else for you.”

My mouth involuntarily opens again, and he raises his hand.

“If I get back and you want to be friends. I can deal with that. At the end of the day, I need you in my life, V, in whatever capacity you want me. Okay?”

I sigh. How can I argue with that? It’s not like I’ve got a choice.

His phone beeps, and he checks it, sighing sadly, “the uber is here.”

Invisible hands constrict around my throat, and a rush of sadness overcomes me.

No, I’m not going to cry. No. No. No.

He goes to his room and collects his bag. I do a few mini paces around his kitchen as I wait for him. I want to yell at him, tell him that he’s wrong. I don’t need time to _think._ I’ve been thinking about this for a lifetime. But what is the use? He has made his decision. He wants to give me the gift of time.

Just what I need, months to think _more_ about how much I want Logan and how he’s not sure he wants me back.

Great.

He stands by the door holding his knuckles up to me, and I stare at them, my face grimaced.

“Are you trying to _fist bump_ me?” I ask with horror.

He laughs.

“I hope that’s a fucking joke?” I say again as he keeps laughing. But his laugh starts to break a little. Arms wrap around me, holding me tight and I bury my face into his chest, breathing him in.

In and out. That scent, it was total comfort. It was home.

I look up at him and his finger curls under my chin and kisses me. Slowly, tentatively. His tongue sweeps against mine, and I fight against every cell in my body to keep this PG. Something about his tongue, it makes me forget my own name.

But this kiss isn’t the passion and desperation of last night.

This kiss is goodbye.

When I realize it, I pull back a little. Almost choking up, but I bury my face back into his neck to disguise the wave of emotion that flows through my body.

His phone beeps again.

“I have to go,” he speaks the words, but he doesn’t move. Just standing there, holding me in suspended animation.

My arms push him towards the door. “Go,” I need to be cruel to be kind—both to him and myself.

“See you soon,” he says as he picks up his duffel and walks out the door.

I stare at the door like a crazy person for a good five minutes. I can hear him walk down the stairs. I think I can hear the car door open and close, but I’m pretty sure I imagine it.

I’m not a crier.

I

Am

Not

Going

To

Cry

Crying solves nothing. It won't bring Logan back, and it won't fix all the unresolved issues.

Like a little robot, I wander to his sink, wash up the dishes we used, dry them and place them back in the cupboards.

In his room, I make the bed and find my clothes, putting each item back on with significantly less fanfare than the way they came off. Then I walk to the bathroom and use the red toothbrush he kept out for me, put it back in the holder. I take my phone off the counter and walk out the door, locking it carefully behind me and hiding the spare key back above the doorframe.

\------------

**1.35 pm**

I swivel around on my chair, back and forth, staring at the screen ahead and willing myself to read this appellate brief. Maybe if I stare at the same word for long enough, I can absorb it by osmosis?

Unlikely.

I’d already received a few dubious comments from co-workers regarding the validity of my sick day yesterday. For a little dramatic flair, I’ve made several trips to the bathroom, feining stomach issues, to instead stare at the stall walls.

Today was a nothing day. An office day, filing, briefs, paperwork. Counting the moments until it was over until I could get home. 

Home, where my sheets were sure to be filled with the scent of sex and Logan, and I had no intention of ever changing them. Ever.

I had very big plans tonight. I was going to drink an entire bottle of Merlot and bury my head in those sheets.

Gotta look forward to the little things.

Tara, a middle-aged law clerk, peers around my cubicle, disturbing my reverie. “Hey Veronica, do you want to go in on lunch? We’re thinking Deli,” she is impossibly bubbly and always eager to please. 

Yes, I had better eat some food. I was going to need something to soak up all the wine tonight.

I hand her a twenty, and she shuffles off with a dimply smile.

Read Veronica. Read the page in front of you. Focus. You’re going to get fired.

READ THE FUCKING PAGE VERONICA.

No, there is something I need to do first.

I wheel back my rolley chair casually and start walking back to the bathroom. I even plaster a smile on my face when Ben in the cubicle next door looks up at me passing by. Bad idea, a smile would probably alert him to something amiss.

I open the door, lean down to check under each stall—all clear.

Turning around, I lock the door, close the toilet seat and sit down.

It's there. Bubbling.

Bubbling since he tried to fist bump me. Since he held me. Since he kissed me.

Tears start to roll down my cheeks in a fierce wave. My hands swipe at them, almost slapping them away. But it doesn’t work. The floodgates have opened, and I start to do great, heaving, unattractive sobs. All the while praying no-one else steps foot in the ladies room to witness my breakdown.

I sob for everything that did and didn’t happen. For missing him. For the way he hates himself. For my own loneliness. For loving him. For not kissing him sooner.

When you haven’t cried for a long time, and it starts, it becomes impossible to stop. All the little things build up into one big, unstoppable thing.

The culmination of five eventful days.

On Saturday, we were friends who nooked.

On Sunday, we were friends who spooned.

On Monday, we were friends who shared inappropriate texts.

On Tuesday, we were friends who held hands.

On Wednesday, we were friends who had a lot of sex.

On Thursday he is gone, nothing is resolved, and I’m here crying on a toilet.

\------------

**6.49pm**

Once I get home, the first thing I do is take off my bra, change into my sweats then scrub my makeup off and avoid looking in the mirror at my red eyes. Then proceed straight to collapse onto the couch with my wine, flicking through the Netflix options.

My phone beeps. Skype message from Logan.

 **6.51pm from Logan:** Home from work?

 **6.51pm from Veronica:** Yes. Just sat on the couch. 

**6.53pm from Logan:** I miss you already.

The corner of my mouth twists into a smile.

 **6.54pm from Veronica:** Not me, I’m enjoying all this couch space.

 **6.54pm from Logan:** Liar.

 **6.54pm from Logan:** Are you alone?

 **6.55pm from Veronica:** Just me, Bubba and all my other boyfriends. Why?

 **6.55pm from Logan:** I have a present for you.

I sit and wait for a moment, staring at my phone before an image comes through from Logan.

I hold it back from my face, lest it blind me with its magnificence.

It’s a selfie of Logan, laying in his bunk. He’s shirtless and wearing his khaki pants low over his hips, his body adjusted in almost the precise positioning that I was earlier this morning—eyes twinkling with mischief and lust staring up at the camera.

It’s a tasty blur of chocolate eyes, biceps, triceps, pecs and abs. Quite hypnotizing.

Yes, this would do very nicely.

 **6.56pm from Veronica:** I accept this present with many thanks. My birthday is coming up… wonder what I’ll get then??

 **6.56pm from Logan:** Only time will tell. I better go do some work.

 **6.57pm from Veronica:** OK. Goodnight.

 **6.57pm from Logan:** Goodnight. Xo.


	7. 147 Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 147 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I thought this chapter was going to be the end. Turns out I was wrong.  
> LoVe isn't finished just yet. I'm going to let it see where it takes me.

\--- 147 Days -----

**Day 16**

The first few weeks dragged on, always the hardest for me.

The imprints of him in my life are everywhere. When Logan is home, he _is_ my routine, so I’m forced to re-train myself how to function without him.

I worked, ate, drank, watched copious amounts of TV and tried to sleep, failing miserably. Contact with Logan was sporadic and short with text messages here and there and a brief skype call when he was able.

Some days I’m fine, I can smile, even laugh and participate in life. Others, I waded through the day in a total fog, incapable of doing anything but rudimentary tasks.

Missing him came in waves, sometimes I could swim, other times I was drowning.

The familiar chime of a Skype call interrupts my latest murder documentary just as they start flicking crime scene photos up on the screen, my favorite part. I pause the show and answer the call from a ‘secure line’.

It’s Logan, a little more pixelated than I preferred and suffering from a 3-second time delay. All of him condensed down and untouchable on my 14-inch screen.

He looks happy, fresh-faced and handsome in his khakis, telling me about his week, in the usual cryptic fashion. I don’t have much news that I’m willing to waste on a video call, so I’m more than happy just to sit, watch and listen.

Logan was allowed one skype call per week, and he always used it to call me. The thought caused me no small amount of sadness that Logan had no-one else to call. No parents, Trina and Logan weren’t on speaking terms most of the time. He tells me with a laugh that he certainly isn’t going to waste his one video call on Dick.

It helps me to realise why it was that he enlisted in the first place. He had no-one. He was looking for a family, for friends and the Navy gave him that. People to be around, friends and support.

“How's the weather there?” he asks

“Are we seriously going to discuss the weather, Logan, it's Southern Cal, it’s always the same.”

He chuckles, “Sorry, you’re quiet today, I’m just trying to get you to talk.”

_How can I tell you that I’m so miserable without you that I can barely function?_

I shrug, “I mean, it's fine, we can talk about the weather all you want, just take off your shirt, and I’ll talk about _anything_ you want,” I wink at the screen, trying to lighten the mood.

The thought of shirtless Logan certainly lifts me from my malaise.

He smirks and glances to his right, lowering his voice a little, “there is a line waiting just outside this door,” he reminds me.

Logan had earlier advised me that skype-sex was off the menu. Apparently it was frowned upon to use a secure naval network for a quick virtual rendezvous.

I scrunched up my nose and stuck out my tongue at him, disappointed he wouldn’t play.

“Maybe,” he offers, “while I’m away, while we’re in this limbo, we should just stick to normal friendly activities?”

“So, not like friends on shirtless skype calls?” I ask, feigning confusion.

“Exactly.”

Bummer.

I don’t begrudge his idea. It makes sense to cool things down a little while we’re surrounded by so much uncertainty. As cute as he is on that tiny screen, it’s _nothing_ like the real thing.

I am prepared to wait.

“I’m meeting up for lunch with Wallace the week after next.”

“That’s good, tell him I said ‘Hi’ and ask about the wedding night!”

“Gross Logan, no.”

He chuckles, and I focus on that face. The lines around his eyes and the way they smile before his mouth does. The crease that forms between his eyes when he’s concerned.

“Have you been up to much else?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Why don’t you go out? Meet new people? Make some new friends?” concern laces his tone.

I scrunch up my face again, forgetting that he can see me.

“I might not be able to talk to you again for a little while,” he warns.

“Okay,” I sigh.

He pauses, eyes locked with mine.

“I miss you,” Logan says, his voice a little strained.

“I miss you too.”

His eyes dart across to the door again, and sadness crosses his face.

“Times up.”

I frown.

“Talk to you later, _buddy,”_ he waves at the screen.

“Later, Buddy.”

\--------------

**Day 19**

I collect Logan’s mail from his box, unlock the door and go inside. Whenever he was gone, it was my Sunday routine. I’d walk from my place and collect a coffee and a bagel on the way.

Only one letter today, an electric bill.

I wander to his closet, sweeping my hand across his hanging shirts and smiling at all his neatly folded jeans and underwear. Say what you want about the Navy, the discipline had undoubtedly rubbed off on Logan. Everything from his coffee mugs to his bath towels were always neat and ordered with military precision. Sometimes I liked to move his plates askew and then watch as he silently rearranged them back to their perfect order.

Unlocking his safe, I take out his checkbook, tare out a slip and wander back to the counter. He’d not only left signed cheques for me but a pile of envelopes and stamps to make my job just a little bit easier.

That was Logan, always thinking ahead. Bringing me a glass of water before I knew I was thirsty, picking me up from work with a pair of trainers to relieve my sore feet, making Wednesdays ‘salad day’ so I would consume at least a few vegetables each week.

Cheque addressed, signed and sealed. I hop up onto the counter for my favorite part of a Sunday.

I dial his number, wait for the click and hear the smooth timbre of his voice.

 _‘This is Logan, with this week's inspirational greeting “You know you’re in love when you don’t want to fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”–_ _Dr. Seuss’_

\----------------

**Day 27**

Wallace, glowing with that newlywed sex-induced aura takes great bites of his burger, mouth full as he speaks, “and it was just buffet after buffet, anything you could possibly want; lobster, wagyu burgers, shrimp as big as your hand.”

I laugh, “only you Wallace, would come home from your honeymoon and wax lyrical about the buffets,” I point to his plate, “while eating a burger.”

Wallace scrunches up his nose and points to my plate, “and why is your deluxe BBQ bacon burger with extra onion rings sitting there only half-eaten?”

I shrug and push the plate towards him.

He looks at me quizzically.

“Did you take a break from the buffet to romance the wife?” I waggle my brows at him.

Wallace shakes his head, “Nope, Not talking about this with you Veronica.”

I cross my arms in a huff facetiously.

“So, married life then, all it’s cracked up to be?” I ask.

“Well, so far it’s pretty much identical to unmarried life so, no complaints from me.”

“What’s been happening with you?” he asks as I take a large sip of my soda.

“Just work, making our way through a huge RICO case.”

Wallace looks at me, “Why do I feel like you have lost your passion for work lately? The Veronica I knew would investigate even the smallest case; lost pets, tracking down secret admirers with dogged determination until the very end.”

I shrug, “Work is just that, it’s _work._ I enjoy it, but I don’t have the passion for it that I used to. More times than not, I’m disappointed in the justice system. The good guys don’t always win. Most of the time, no one wins.”

“That’s life when you have to start playing by the rules, hey?”

“I guess.” I start ripping my napkin into tiny pieces, “Can’t complain, it pays the bills and the student loans.”

We sit in silence for a moment.

“Are you doing okay? You seem a little off,” he asks, worry in his tone.

He’s caught me on a bad day—a day where I can’t escape the fog.

“I’m fine,”

“Mmmm,” he mumbles, clearly unconvinced. “Well, Shae wants me to invite you to ours for dinner on Saturday night hopefully, we can cheer you up. Are you free?”

“I am,”

He watches me for a moment, then asks, “Did something else happen? Something between you and Logan?”

I nod.

“Did something happen at the wedding?”

“No,” I pause, “Well, yes, kind of.”

He smiles and opens his hands encouraging me to elaborate.

I’m certainly not going to explain the many enchanting nuances of the nooks and spoons to Wallace.

“Things _escalated_ the week before he left, and we’re currently _assessing_ how to proceed while he’s away.”

“What do you _want_ to happen?” He asks.

I don’t hesitate, “I want to be with him.”

“And he wants that too,” I’m not sure if it is a question or a statement.

“Yes, to a point. He’s reluctant to go down that relationship path. He’s worried he’s going to screw it up. Going on about how he’s not good enough for me. Let’s be honest. I’m not perfect by any stretch of the imagination. The last time we broke up, it was my fault, my demons. Who is he kidding, thinking he is the only problematic one?”

“I won’t dispute that,” he chuckles

Wallace collects the last fry from his plate, dips it in sauce and pops it into his mouth before wiping his fingers on the napkin.

“You know he’s not always been my favorite person V, but even I can admit he’s changed. He’s good for you, and you’re good for him. Who cares about all that old bullshit, it was over ten years ago? You keep bouncing back to each other again and again. Honestly, I can’t imagine either of you with someone else anymore.”

I pull the straw in and out of my drink, hitting against the ice in the bottom of the cup. “Neither can I.”

“Well, Shae will be happy with these developments,”

“Why?”

Wallace leans in a little, “Don’t tell her I told you, her wedding seating plan was a deliberate act. She wanted Logan to sit with Rebecca and you with Brett. She thought it would produce a certain result, rile you up, encourage you to take some action.”

My mouth dropped, “Well, isn’t she just a little evil matchmaker?” I shake my head.

“Shit, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything,” Wallace tries to backpedal.

“Relax,” I wave a hand, “It's fine, it worked. At the end of the day, I’m glad. We needed something to push us to this, even if it’s a shitty place _this_ is.”

“When is he home?”

I shrug.

“So now you just wait.”

Yes, more waiting.

Wading around in this ocean of limbo.

I leave Wallace to head back to the office with promises of Saturday night dinner.

As I walk down the street, all I can think about was all the times I’d walked down this street with Logan. Almost every day he was home, he would meet me for lunch.

A delicious midday treat to look forward to each day, a treat that had absolutely nothing to do with food.

\---------

**Day 34**

_This is Logan, with this week's inspirational greeting ‘you realize how much you truly miss someone when something happens, good or bad, and the only person you want to tell is the person who isn’t there.’ – Anonymous._

_\----------_

**Day 47**

I open my front door to a giant bouquet of flowers, held by Dick.

_What have I done to deserve this?_

“Happy Birthday Ronnie!” he walks in and deposits the bouquet and a large box on the kitchen counter before strolling around, poking through my bookshelf, pulling out items for inspection.

“Please, come in, make yourself at home.”

“So, like, those aren’t from me. I’m just the delivery man,” he points to the flowers and cake.

I open up the box to a large chocolate cake with _HB Buddy_ written in cursive scroll across the top. Strawberries and chocolate ganache surround it. I pick one up, run it through the ganache and pop it into my mouth.

“I figured,” I say with my mouth full.

Dick reclines himself on my sofa and helps himself to a handful of Doritos from the bag.

“Logan may have ordered and paid for it all, but I brought it all here, so _that_ is my present to _you._ ”

“Thank you,” I say sincerely, softening a little. Dick may not be my favorite bleached blonde idiot, but he was reasonably harmless.

“Logan did also ask me to strip for you but, let's be honest, once you see _this_ , “ he motions up and down his body, “you won’t be able to hold back. And, well, Logan would murder me with his bare hands, so I decided against it.”

Without any doubt, my real birthday present was that Dick didn’t strip. The Gods must be smiling on me tonight.

“Not any more, Logan’s mellowed now,”

He shakes his head fiercely, “Not when it comes to you, Ronnie,”

I cut us both a piece of cake and take it over to the sofa, handing one to Dick and sitting beside him, legs crossed underneath me.

Dick, always the child trapped in a man's body was obviously missing his friend too. Logan spent the mornings surfing with him and playing video games. A healthy trust fund kept Dick from ever having to truly participate in the work-force, which made him an ideal playdate for the days when I was working, and Logan was home.

“Any nice ladies keeping you occupied at the moment?”

Dick screws up his nose, “ _Ladies_ sound a bit old for me V, I’ve been hanging with a chick for a little while. Breanna. I tried to set her up with Logan a while ago, but he wasn’t interested, so I thought, what the hell?” he shrugs and shovels in more cake.

He continues, “She’s like, super hot, legs to the sky,” he tries to explain her general hotness with his hands, which mainly culminates in some kind of breast-grabbing mime demonstration. That’s Dick, keeping it classy.

“She sounds delightful,” I deadpan.

“Well, she is, not all of us can be as teeny-tiny and crabby as you.”

I shrug, it sure is hard work.

“Anyway,” he continues, “He couldn’t have been less interested. For a long time I thought it was Carrie you know, that Logan was all fucked up from the murder and not interested in women and dating, but then I realized,”

“Please, enlighten me.”

“I realized that it wasn’t Carrie’s death that changed him; it was your return.”

I don’t know how to respond, so it seems fitting to fork a ridiculously large piece of birthday cake into my mouth.

He continues, more seriously now, “Now he’s got me over here, delivering flowers, like a sucker. You’re a cool chick and all - when you’re not a total psycho. I just hope you go easy on him this time. He lives and dies on everything you say,”

I try to reassure him, “Dick, we’re just in a weird place at the moment.”

He interrupts me, “I know that some shit has gone down recently between you guys, whatever, you’re figuring your stuff out. But you need to be careful not to crush him.”

I shake my head fiercely, “I won't.”

“You’ve done it before,” he warns.

My voice cracks a little, and it comes out a little strained, “Things are different now.”

“I hope so Ronnie,”

A lump rises in my throat, and I turn the television on to distract us. Of course, I didn’t want to hurt Logan. It was the last thing I wanted for him. But no-one ever enters into a relationship expecting it to end. We’d both hurt each other before, all I could do was hope that things would be different this time, if there was a _this time._

Dick doesn’t seem in any rush to leave and joins me in watching a documentary on the Night Stalker and irritating me no end with interruptions and questions. Eventually, he falls asleep, like a big, goofy child—no doubt in a food coma from all the cake he consumed.

As its nearing midnight, I consider waking him from his slumber, but I hear the familiar ring and pick up my phone, relieved to see the name pop up on my screen.

“Hey.”

“Happy Birthday Bobcat. Did you get my present?” Logan asks mischievously.

That voice _,_ now that’s _all_ I needed for my Birthday.

“Are you referring to the strip-a-gram currently asleep on my couch?” I ask, looking over at my guest, head tilted back, mouth open and snoring.

“Oh God, really? Sorry, it sounds like my present backfired.”

“Yup, he ate half the cake and passed out. I’m considering attacking his face with a sharpie.”

“A dick on Dick?” he muses.

“Seems logical.”

I slip into the bedroom and close the door quietly, careful not to wake my guest.

“Please tell me he didn’t actually strip? I said that as a joke.”

“Thankfully no, he is currently still dressed. – Thanks for the flowers and cake though, Next time maybe re-think the delivery method.”

“What no Dick on your Birthday? I thought it was _just_ what you wanted,” he chuckles at his own hilarity.

“Never, I repeat, _never_ confuse the two again,” I scold.

“Do you want me to sing you happy birthday to make up for it?”

“No.”

He ignores me, “Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Veronica.”

“No,” I cringe.

“Happy Birthday to you,” he finishes with a melodic flair, and all I can do is smile.

\-------------

**Day 65**

_This is Logan, with this week's inspirational greeting, ‘a true friend is someone who thinks you are a good egg even though they know that you’re slightly cracked.’ – Bernard Meltzer._

\-------------

**Day 81**

After-work dinner to celebrate the firm’s twentieth year of operations turned into after-work drinks. You could say I wasn’t the most regular face at work meet-ups; in fact, this may have been my first one.

I was relishing the frosty margaritas and the pleasant way they slipped down my throat.

The more I drank, the less I cared.

I certainly didn’t care that I hadn’t heard from Logan in over two weeks. I didn’t care that I didn’t know when he would be back. Didn’t care that I’d be going home to my apartment alone, again.

Nope. That’s me, Veronica-no-care.

Logan had suggested that I try a little more with my work-mates. So here I was, _trying_. Being friendly, smiling, listening, laughing. But my heart wasn’t in it.

I licked the salt off the rim of my glass and deposited it on the table roughly before taking the pitcher for more.

When I went to the bathroom and almost fell off the toilet onto the floor, it felt like maybe it was time to go home.

I called and cab and departed without saying goodbye.

I kick off my boots, stagger onto the bed and dial Logan’s number.

Convinced he wouldn’t answer I was going to leave a voicemail or two. What would a short voicemail hurt? I don’t know why people got all worked up about having a few drinks and then dialing?

The phone rings and then the click of the voicemail takes over

“ _This is Logan with Today's inspirational greeting. Most obstacles melt away when we make up our minds to walk boldly through them. —Orison Swett Marden”_

“Hey, it’s good to hear your voice. So, I went out tonight… I’ve had a few margaritas, well, okay a pitcher of margaritas. They were delicious. I think it’s the salt. Yes, it's definitely the salt. Oh, let's not forget the lime, that’s important too,” I paused for a minute, realizing I had no clue what I wanted to say, “Today I was thinking about the time we were fifteen and in the limo on the way to Prom, you said on a truth that you thought I was hot. I spent, like, the whole next week thinking about it. Did you notice that I wore the soccer uniform to your house not long after? I said I was going to see Lily, but, I really just come over because I wanted you to see it. I don’t know why. Why do fifteen-year-olds do half the stupid stuff they do? I mean you were with Lily, I was with Duncan, what was it going to achieve? I just really liked the thought of you liking me, it made me feel _something,_ ” I took a deep breath, reminiscing. I probably should wrap this up, “So, anyway. I’m going to shut up now. Um, so…. Yeah. I hope you’re good. Miss you. I think about you all the time. I think about your arms a lot. You have _really_ amazing arms; they’re really… wide. Anyway, Talk soon. Oh, this is Veronica.”

I hang up.

Yeah, that was most definitely a bad idea. Is there a way you can delete voicemails?

I start googling on my phone like a madwoman.

No, apparently not.

 **11.43pm from Veronica:** Hey just did a buttdial, please ignore the voicemail.

I don’t want to admit how many times I had to type that to ensure the spelling was correct. Damn margaritas were interfering with my fine-motor skills.

A few minutes later the phone rings and I freeze, staring at it.

A picture of Logan in his bed flashes up on the screen. I sit back and collect myself.

“Hey you,” I answer the phone in my huskiest tone.

“Hey yourself.”

“What are you up to?”

“Well, I just climbed into my bunk, drew my curtains and turned on my phone to look at my favorite picture and get a message to say you called. What are you up to?” It's so lovely to hear his voice. It wraps me in a warm, familiar blanket.

“I just got home. I made an effort tonight. You’d be proud of me. I went out for drinks with everyone after work.”

He laughs into the phone, “ _Yes_ , I can tell you’ve had a _few_ drinks,” damn, I thought I had covered up my mild inebriation.

“How can you tell?” I remark, affronted.

“It's all in the tone. I know you V. I just _know,_ ” his voice, suddenly smooth and dark creeps into my ear, twisting through my veins. “So how did you go? Make some new friends?”

I grunt, “Not really no, I don’t think they’re really my crowd. Now I’m back home. All alone,” I drag out the _alone_ for dramatic effect.

“Maybe you need a dog?”

“Maybe I need a man?” It falls out of my mouth—dastardly alcohol.

He chuckles, “Yeah, I’m not going to comment on that one. Err on the side of caution.”

“So,” I tease, “What are you wearing?”

His voice is playful with a tinge of warning, “Veronica, we’re just friends remember. Friends don’t ask friends what other friends are wearing in bed.”

We’d been exploring that thin line of friendship in depth of late. I was happy to push the line a little further, maybe blur it.

“We are _friends,_ I’m just being friendly,” I coy.

“Friends. No hanky panky,” he is trying to be serious but I know he is smiling, I can hear it in his tone.

I play innocent, “I’m here. You’re there. I couldn’t hanky panky you if I tried.”

He is quiet for a moment, before responding, “If you were here … would you try?”

“Without a doubt,” I reply with full honesty. “So, back to my question, what are you wearing?”

Logan sighs deeply into the phone, resigning himself to walking the thin line. “I’m just in boxers, I was planning on going to sleep.”

“Interesting.”

I wait, staring at the ceiling.

Come on, Logan.

Ask.

You know you want to.

His voice drops an octave, and he whispers into the phone, “What are you wearing?”

My mouth cracks into a wide smile, so glad that he was willing to play.

“Nothing,” I whisper back. Of course, that’s not entirely true. I’m still wearing the same clothes I’ve been in all day, but I certainly wasn’t going to tell him _that._

It’s a woman’s prerogative to create an air of mystique.

I start to unbutton my pants and slide them off my hips.

He is silent again.

“Tell me Logan,” I coax him, slipping into sultry Veronica. Sultry, slightly tequila-soaked Veronica. “When you said you were about to look at my photo, were you just going to _look_ at it?”

More silence, until “No,” comes out in a whisper.

“So,” I try to encourage more information.

“Veronica,” his voice is warning again, “You’ve been drinking. We’re just friends _remember?_ ”

Yes, yes. How could I _forget!_

“You can't take advantage of me in my drunken state from _whereeveryouare._ ”

The line is quiet again.

“Okay. I’ll tell you what I do when I look at your photo,” I offer.

A pained sigh comes through the receiver.

“I stare into your eyes, and I think about that morning you left. I think of the shower. When you slipped your hands between my legs,” I pause, gathering the courage to continue, “And I run my fingers between my thighs and imagine they’re yours.”

His breathing quickens.

“Your turn,” I bait him, knowing he won't refuse me. “What do you think about when you look at my photo?”

Finally, he replies in a whisper, “I think about that night at Wallace and Shae’s wedding, and I imagine what I should have done. What I wished I had the courage to do.”

“And,” I encourage, “What was that?”

I put the phone on speaker beside me on my pillow. This situation is most definitely calls for hands-free.

His whispered voice drips like honey off the walls, and I can almost feel him in the room.

“I imagine you beside me, running my hand along your stomach, turning you towards me and kissing you. Flipping you onto your back and running my lips over every inch of you, licking your perfect pink nipples, _tasting you,_ ” Logan draws in a ragged breath, “ _Oh God_ , I wish I did that.”

“Me too,” I reply.

Without a fucking doubt.

I let my hand roam downwards, his voice alone making me wet, creating ripples of desire all the way to my toes—yearning for him. 81 days without him. 81 days without sex. This isn’t going to take me long.

I’ve never done this before, it seems so brazen, but even though he’s on the other side of the world, it makes me feel closer to him.

“Your turn.”

“I imagine soaping you up, feeling your hardness in my hands. Bending down and putting you inside my mouth. Tasting you. You are so damn tasty Logan.”

“Jesus Christ,” he groans.

“And you lifted my chin and pulled me up and kissed me. You dropped to your knees, lifted my leg over your shoulder,” I almost can’t get the words to come out, the memory of it still fresh in my mind. “Your tongue dipped into me, and I couldn’t hold myself up; it felt so good. My legs started to give way, so you wrapped your arms under my ass and held me up, held me up and licked me until I came.”

My fingers re-created the swirling of his tongue.

He joins me, wandering in the memory and adds, “I never wanted to stop.”

I can hear his sheets rustling, movement in his bunk. The mere thought of him touching himself while talking to me was electrifying. I’m getting close.

Logan continues, “Then I stood up and kissed you, pushing you against the shower wall. I lifted your legs and wrapped them around me, and I dipped inside you. God,” he pauses, “you felt so good, Veronica, so _fucking good_ , I couldn’t stop. I had your ass in my hands, and I came so hard.”

I whimper, reliving the memory with my two hands, my eyes squeezed shut. I can see him _here_ , with me.

“Oh, Logan.”

I can only hear heavy breathing.

Currents are rippling through me, my hand, _his hand,_ my fingers, _his fingers_ increasing their pace.

“Veronica,” he chokes in a pained mutter. That was all I needed, Logan, doused in his own orgasm, calling my name. My vision goes white, and I buck in my sheets, clawing at them for something to ground me. My phone, jostled by the ruckus falls to the floor with a crash.

I stare at the ceiling for a while, waiting to regain full use of my limbs, still rendered useless.

Finally composing myself, I reach down and pick up the phone.

I can hear Logan chuckling softly, “Did you drop me?”

I nod to no-one, not caring that he can’t hear me.

Logans voice has switched to his after-sex voice, raspy and hypnotic. “Are you okay, Veronica?”

“No,” I reply with total honesty.

\---------------

**Day 82**

I look at my phone, the corner of my mouth smirks at the twisting crack jagged through the center of my screen. One bout of phone sex with Logan was going to cost me at least $600 in repairs.

I concluded that it was, in fact, money well spent.

As I sat at my desk, swiveling back and forth, I thought it was fitting to send a follow-up text. Things got heated last night, and surely it was best to diffuse the tension early.

 **9.27am from Veronica:** Can you get pregnant from phone sex? Asking for a friend.

 **9.45am from Logan:** I think you’ll be safe… hopefully.

 **9.46am from Veronica:** If it’s worth anything, it was so good that I cracked my phone screen.

 **9.46am from Logan:** I get that ALL the time.

It’s hard not to chuckle out loud.

 **9.49am From Logan:** I was weak, you seduced me with your womanly ways.

 **9.49am From Veronica:** I think you’ll find, technically, that you seduced yourself.

 **9.50am From Logan:** You make a fair point

 **9.52am from Logan:** By the way. I listened to your _buttdial_ voicemail. I remember that day clearly. You sat on my kitchen counter in that soccer uniform, we ate grilled cheese, and you twirled your fingers in your pigtails. I didn’t sleep for days.

\---

Later in the day Logan sends me a photo. It was perfectly, disappointingly G rated.

A selfie of him on land somewhere, a town in the distance. He was wearing his working uniform in khaki camouflage with a cap. Face open and happy with a wide smile. It was hard not to smile back.

Interestingly, he was on land.

It was hard not to feel that he was lost. Not being able to pinpoint him to a place, a timezone, somewhere, _anywhere_ made it more difficult. If something happened to him, how would I know?

I screenshot the photo, sent it to my laptop and got a closer look. After 20 minutes of cutting the image and enhancing the background, I was able to read some of the store names. A bit of googling and reverse image searching later and it was clear Logan was in Guam. It wasn’t particularly revealing, it was probably just a re-stocking stop, but I slept a little better that night knowing he was safe, knowing his location in the world helped.

\-------------

**Day 89**

_This is Logan, with this week's inspirational greeting “Every decision brings with it some good, some bad, some lessons, and some luck. The only thing that’s for sure is that indecision steals many years from many people who wind up wishing they’d just had the courage to leap.” Doe Zantamata_

\------------- 

**Day 94**

“How are you?” Logan asks, his tone more serious today.

I sit at my desk, shoulders slumped, staring at the screen in front of me. I’d been reading through motions all day, but as soon as he called my vision blurred and all I could focus on was his voice.

Hushed, so my colleagues don’t hear I whisper back, “This is torture Logan.”

“I know,” he pauses, “I’m sorry.”

We sit in silence for a while. I wasn’t sure if you could _hear_ pain, but this seemed close.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. This is your job. I’m so proud of you for what you're doing. I guess I’m just struggling at the moment, ignore me,” I say, picking up a four-colour pen and repeatedly clicking the colors in and out.

“This is a big part of me V. If we do _this_ , I’m going to be gone a lot, sometimes I’ll be away more than I’m home.”

“I know,” I say, shaking my head at my own childish behavior.

“You’ve got the rough end. You’re the one left behind. I realize it must be difficult. I can’t imagine how I’d be if the tables were turned.”

Suddenly I’m hit with the realization that he might decide this was all too hard. I never intended to make him feel guilty about his job, or to feel sorry for leaving me behind. This was never about trying to make him feel bad. I just felt his absence so acutely, it was hard to ignore.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make this harder for you. I’m being ridiculous,” I backpedal, embarrassed.

Logan shushes me, “No, Veronica, you’re not. Long-distance is hard. I don’t know anyone here who finds it easy. We’re all struggling in different ways. There is lots going on here to distract me most of the time, but it doesn’t mean I don’t miss you, think about you.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “As your _friend,_ I need you to know that I love you. No matter what you decide, I’ll still be there, okay?”

I nod to the phone.

If I was going to get through this, it was clear that I needed to change my outlook. Logan was going to be gone regularly. I knew that. My life didn’t need to pause just because he wasn’t in it.

There was only one person who could pull me from my funk.

It was me.

\---------------------------

**Day 102**

It’s a Saturday. The apartment is clean. The rubbish has been taken out. I’d relented and changed my sheets eventually, washing Logan from my bed, if not from my mind.

I grabbed my keys from the bench, hopped in the car and drove to the dog shelter. It had been in the back of my mind for some time now. Coming home to an empty apartment every night was grinding at me. I’d been thinking a lot about Backup and his slobbery, loafy ways.

Growing up we’d always had a dog. A faithful companion by my side through thick and thin.

Daunted a little by the responsibility of being the sole caregiver of any creature, I reminded myself that I’d sufficiently kept Backup alive and healthy as a teen. There was no reason I couldn’t do the same now.

After a few calls, I’d found a nervous six-month-old Boxer cross that they were trying to house at the Balboa County Animal Rescue. He’d come from a Puppy farm and been abandoned when he wasn’t sold.

It was there that I met ‘Hollow.’

His fur is burnished, almost coppery, with a brick-like muscly build and a robust straight tail. Sitting quietly, panting in the corner of his pen, he was reluctant to come towards me. I got down on all fours and put my hand out, my head down trying to coax him across.

I’d planned to just meet him – to get a feel for him. But when he finally crossed that pen and approached me, gazing up with his chocolate brown eyes. I was a goner. He recognized my weakness for eyes derived from the cocoa plant and lavished me with a lick to the ear.

Yeah, he was coming home with me today.

I take him to the beach on the way home, and he transforms, bounding through the waves with unbridled glee, chasing the seagulls and displaying his incredible athletic ability when catching a flying paper bag in the wind. We then visit the pet shop where I spend an obscene amount of money on chew toys, dog beds, worming tablets and a bag of dog chow almost larger than me.

We finally get home, and he stalks around the house, smelling all the smells, curiously investigating every nook and cranny of his new home, leaving a long line of drool in his wake.

I make both our dinners, settling onto the couch with mine on my lap.

Much to his chagrin, Hollow must enjoy his in a bowl on the kitchen floor. It’s wolfed down in twenty seconds before he comes and joins me back on the couch. Panting away he continually looks towards the door, like he’s waiting for something.

As I dive into another episode of Forensic Files he sleeps, head resting snugly on my lap, snoring in deep, throaty rumbles. And I’m content, for the first time in a long time.

 **9.49pm from Veronica:** It’s official, I’ve found another man

I lean over and take a photo of Hollow’s sleeping form and send it to Logan.

 **9.53pm from Logan:** I have to say the delay between the first message you sent and the photo was a little troubling for me.

 **9.53pm from Logan:** But, he is a fine-looking fellow. One that clearly enjoys your lap as much as I do.

 **9.54pm from Veronica:** Sorry, didn’t think about the delay.

 **9.55pm from Logan:** Is he a keeper?

 **9.55pm from Veronica:** He is.

 **9.56pm from Logan:** I think it’s a great idea. I can’t wait to meet him.

 **9.56pm from Veronica:** Hopefully sooner rather than later.

 **9.57pm from Logan:** I hope so too. x

\------------

**Day 107**

Today I open up the windows in Logan’s apartment. It’s starting to smell stale.

My canine assistant checks all the rooms with dedication, ensuring that every corner is inspected. Satisfied that all the smells were satisfactorily dealt with, he finds a position beside the window and drops to the floor to bask in the morning sun.

Logan’s mail has dwindled down, and the only thing arriving now is the monthly local newspaper.

I lay on the couch and flip through it, trying to extend my time here before making the call _._

_This is Logan, with this week's inspirational greeting “distance is not for the fearful, it's for the bold. It's for those who are willing to spend a lot of time alone in exchange for a little time with the one they love. It's for those who know a good thing when they see it, even if they don't see it nearly enough”― Meghan Daum_

\------------- 

**Day 147**

Each morning I get up and take Hollow for a run and every evening take him to the beach. He’s forever grateful for any attention I bestow upon him, always rewarding me with furry nuzzles and grunts. This dog has become my purpose when I had no motivation to pull myself out of bed in the morning.

His needs are basic: Food, water, exercise, love.

He is the perfect distraction from my inner thoughts.

Those thoughts had been running rampant lately.

I hadn’t heard from Logan in almost three weeks.

My texts are going unanswered. His voicemail remains unchanged.

My head fills with endless worst-case-scenarios, replaying in my head.  
Logic tells me that this is normal; he is working, he is at sea, there is no cell reception. But logic rarely wins when one is alone with their own overactive imagination.

I struggle to envision him anymore when I close my eyes. It’s been five excruciating months. I guess it’s not surprising that I feel disconnected from him.

Of course, the love is still there - that never fades.

I miss the lunches, the banter, his smell, his smile, his eyes.

Mostly, I miss my friend.

Getting down on my hands and knees on the kitchen floor I mop up the flicks of drool that Hollow had tracked along the tiles.

“I think we need to teach you some table manners,” I scold him.

He completely ignores me, in a huff on the couch. As always, watching the front door, waiting.

My phone buzzes and I bolt off the floor and pick it up.

 **11.35 am from Logan:** Good news

My hands shake, and I draw in a relieved breath just to see his name appear. I type back as fast as I can.

 **11.35 am from Veronica:** Well, what is it?

 **11.36 am from Logan:** We’ve just got word. Looks like I'm coming home.

“Yes!” I shout a little too loud and Hollow leaps from his comfy spot to check on me.

 **11.36am from Veronica:** Do you have an ETA?

 **11.37am from Logan:** Soon


	8. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely comments and kudos on this story, it has been a great encouragement for me.  
> A huge shout out to Aurora2020 for her incredible beta work on the final two chapters!!

Chapter 8

**‘Home’**

**\-------------**

_This is Logan, with this week's inspirational greeting ‘When faced with two choices, simply toss a coin. It works not because it settles the question for you, but because, in that brief moment when the coin is in the air, you suddenly know what you’re hoping for’ – Kevin Purdy._

\--------------

I look at my phone. Again, quickly glancing to check for any missed calls or messages.

Nothing.

It had been eleven days since I’d heard from Logan last. It was now December, Christmas was only a few weeks away, and my general malaise had increased with the realization that he may not be home by then. I hadn’t put up the Christmas tree or bought any presents. I was pushing Christmas, and him, as far into the back of my mind as I could, just getting through the days one at a time.

At this point, I’m sure my blood had turned _into_ red wine. I was having trouble sleeping again, and only an entire bottle could remedy my insomnia. It meant that getting up in the mornings had been progressively harder, and getting through the workday near impossible. But Hollow and work had been solid distractions. Burying myself in cases helped. Winning cases helped even more.

I throw my phone sans messages from Logan into my briefcase, and push my chair out. We’d just finished another staff meeting that most certainly could have been an email.

I walk back to my desk with Marco, who offers to carry my files for me and I politely refuse. I may be small, but I can most certainly hold a few pieces of paper unaided.

On the infamous Margarita work-drinks evening he’d flirted with me and followed me around. If my drunken antics didn’t scare him off sufficiently, it certainly would have been when I told him, quite outright, that I ‘Could. Not. Be. Less. Interested.’

As he mansplains to me about the issues around the legitimacies of some affidavits in our current case, I hold my tongue and just keep walking and thinking.

Thinking about what I’m going to have for lunch, thinking about rechecking my phone for the fiftieth time, thinking about stapling Marco’s head to the wall.

Marco is commonly referred to as the ‘Office Hunk,’ which I think is a stretch; he’s a little too white-collar preppy, with his perfectly coiffed hair, arrogant air and expensive suits for me. He was _okay_ to look at, but he was certainly no Logan.

_Logan._

He’s here, in the flesh. Currently leaning against my desk casually in all his tall, broad, deliciousness.

My walk pauses mid-step. The little baby-hairs on the back of my neck stand up, the air suddenly crackling with electricity.

His mouth sweeps into _that_ grin, and he looks up at me from under his lashes, and our eyes lock.

Relief crashes through me like a wave.

He is safe. He is _here_. 

There is an unequivocal shift in the air. I feel like I’d been holding my breath for five months and suddenly my lungs filled. It was dizzying.

I stand, grinning like an idiot, then finally step forward and hug him. His long arms wrap around me, and he squeezes me so tight I lift off the ground for a moment. I bury my head into his chest and inhale the scent of him.

His body feels hard; I guess that’s what five months of healthy eating and working out will do. When he comes home, I’ll invariably soften him up a little, nothing like daily takeout and lunch catch-ups to soften even the most chiselled abs.

He puts me down gently and I take a step back, unable to pull my eyes away. Marco clearly takes the hint and scurries back to his desk.

“Hi,” is all I can get out, my mouth suddenly dry.

“Hi,” he smiles back, sheepishly.

“You’re back.”

“I’m back.”

“Are you playing copycat?”

He laughs, “I don’t know, are _you_ playing copycat?”

Ahh Logan, I never know when to punch him in the face or kiss him.

Kiss him. I _definitely_ want to kiss him.

“Wanna get lunch?” he asks.

“Yes!”

His hands keep going in and out of his pockets nervously like he’s not sure what to do with them. My hands are shaky and sweaty and I wipe them on my pencil skirt.

He gives me that look, deep and penetrating. It's so much that it makes me want to check my clothes are still on. I remind myself that we’re standing in the office and just staring at each other wordlessly. I look around and faces suddenly turn back to their computers.

Smirking, he gestures to the door, and we start slowly walking out. “When did you get in?” I ask.

“Flew in a few hours ago; I went home and showered, hung up my cape, changed into my human clothes.”

“So, did you save the world?” I ask, nudging against him gently as we walk. The little touch gives me life.

“You’re standing here, aren’t you?” he gives me a crooked grin.

“How was Japan?” I casually ask.

He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again, looking at me with a sideways glance.

After I’d pinpointed him in Guam I was able to use the tracking points sent by aircraft carriers before they switch them off again. I’d narrowed him down to the USS Carl Vinson. It turns out, when in busy waters, they turn on their radar to be seen by other ships, before turning them off again. That, combined with news reports referring to current Naval activity near the US Port of Sasabo in Japan, helped me to narrow the field. Of course, I wasn’t _sure_ until his face told me I was right.

“Serves me right, underestimating the youngest registered PI in Californian history.”

“Yes it does.”

“Of course, I refuse to either confirm nor deny that assumption,” he speaks looking me dead in the eyes. His head nods infinitesimally.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” I reply, and he laughs at the irony.

“ _Wherever_ I was, it was a good tour, reasonably low stakes, lots of good flying time.”

Oh, if only all his tours could be that way.

We enjoy a long, lazy lunch, talking all things Logan’s tour and the not so fascinating developments in the Southern Californian Law Courts. Much like our Skype calls we’d become excellent at discussing events around us, rather than anything actually pertaining to that elusive ‘ _us’._

Alas, a restaurant was not a place to do it. We’d waited 155 days, what was a few more hours?

I knew my answer, of course, I’d known it since the moment he asked the question. Sitting with him, in the flesh, flirting, resuming our banter, only served to cement my feelings further.

I just worried that so much time away had left Logan alone with his thoughts, allowing him to doubt further that pursuing this relationship was a good idea.

We walk back to my office. Our arms touch three times.

I counted.

“Come to mine for dinner tonight?” I offer, and it feels so good, just getting back into our nightly groove.

“Sure,” he smiles. Interesting, I don’t think he’s wiped that grin from his face since I saw him at my desk.

I suddenly feel unsure of what to do with my hands, and give him a thumbs up. Then I remember, I actually have plans for once. “Oh wait, I’ve got dinner at Dad’s tonight. Come along?”

A flash of disappointment crosses his face, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Dad would love to see you. I’ll call him and let him know.”

We stand in the lobby, unmoving.

I _really_ don’t want to go back to work. I don’t want to walk away from him. But my lunch break is starting to hover around the two-hour mark.

It’s time.

I awkwardly pat his arm. “Okay, see you later.”

Touch count: Five.

Brown eyes glance down at his arm, at the spot where I touched him, then flick back to bore into my own.

“Later,” he does a half-wave and watches me walk to the elevator.

\--------------------

If the distraction of _missing someone_ is problematic, the distraction of _that someone being home_ was even more so. I returned to work still shaky and excited. Fumbled through the rest of the day, walking out of the office at precisely 5 pm.

I unlock my front door and find Logan, legs up on the couch reading a magazine with a large brown Boxer draped across his lap. It’s a magnificent sight.

“Hey! Stop snuggling my man on the couch.”

Logan and Hollow both look up at me, Hollow’s tail starts knock-knocking against the cushions.

“Are you talking to me?” Logan points to himself quizzically, “Or Him?” then motions to Hollow.

“Now I’m not sure,” I reply. Finally the tail wagging had travelled down Hollow’s body, and he leapt from the couch to greet me, excitedly licking my hands and face.

Shame, I may have preferred this greeting from the _other man_ on my couch.

I put my keys on the hook and smile at the sight before me.

“You know, he’s been a bit nervous around men, it’s lucky he didn’t maul you, just wandering in here.”

Logan shrugs unfolding himself from the couch, “He was perfectly gentlemanly. He greeted me at the door, licked me, showed me to all your hidden possessions.”

I rub Hollow behind his ears, “You make a terrible guard dog, letting all the riff-raff in.”

“What’s with his name?” he asks quizzically.

“No idea, he already had it at the shelter.”

Logan walks into the kitchen, takes out a glass and fills it with water, “How was work?” he asks.

“Distracting,” I answer honestly.

How many things is it possible to discuss without actually talking about the things we want to? Surely we could teach a masterclass in aversion techniques?

He smirks, leaning against the counter, taking lazy sips. He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt with a v-neck, so simple and yet so alluring. There is that magnet again, pulling me, but I stand my ground, extracting myself from the room with the need to change.

I take off my silk blouse and skirt and put on skinny jeans, a sweater and my Vans. I may have also changed my bra and panties to the sexy new lacy black ones that I’d recently purchased. Didn’t want to get caught out in the old ones I’d been wearing while he was away. Poor guy, flies all the way home after a tour serving his country to be greeted by sad, worn cotton panties.

No, no, we couldn’t have that.

I wander back into the kitchen and a small white box wrapped with a yellow bow is sitting on the counter. I walk up to it and poke it suspiciously.

“What’s this?” I ask.

Logan grins mischievously and replies, “It’s a souvenir.”

I tear apart the paper, open the box and pull out a snow globe, an empty snow globe. I shake it, to try and see if something magically materializes inside.

Nothing.

I peer at him, with a knowing scowl.

“Get it?” he’s grinning like a Cheshire cat, clearly amused by his creative gift choice.

I roll my eyes. A souvenir from nowhere, it’s so … Logan.

“Oh, I get it,” I nod.

“It practically covers me now forever for souvenir gifts while I’m on tour, right?”

“You’re so cash savvy, Echolls.”

“Well, you know, the gift shop on the aircraft carrier only sells keyrings and t-shirts. You, my friend, deserve something special,” he shoots finger guns at me.

“Thank you,” I shake it again, watching the ‘snow’ tumble down.

\-------------------

Hollow is accustomed to his nightly run on the beach, so we make a quick stop on the way to Dad’s to let him stretch his legs.

We walk along the beach in silence. It’s just getting dark, but the moon is already out, illuminating the sand and the crashing waves beside us. There is a cool breeze blowing, and I wish that I’d brought my jacket from the car.

Hollow could care less about the darkness or the cold. He’s been cooped up inside all day and runs up and down the beach maniacally, ribbons of sand flicking behind him. Occasionally he runs back, checking we’re still there.

He keeps coming back to Logan who happily gives him a quick pat before he’s off again, wind in his fur. Typical...there goes weeks of loyalty.

I don’t blame him, though. Even the dog can’t resist.

We walk in the sand with a bit more distance than usual, which I find difficult. My natural tendency is to gravitate as close to his body as possible, so I fight against it. I’ve gotten pretty good at it, I’ve been in stages of accepting it and fighting it for the better part of fifteen years with Logan.

I run the dog lead through my fingers repeatedly watching Hollow leap through the waves, biting them as they roll in and then fleeing as they crash.

It felt like there was an innate, unspoken acknowledgement that now was not the time to have our discussion. Of course, it floated through the air; we were clearly both thinking about it, our silence speaking volumes.

The reality was that both possible outcomes would lead to an incredibly awkward dinner with my father. None of them could be adequately addressed in the fifteen minutes we had available before our presence was required. 

Option A: Rejection. Resumption of the ‘just friends’ vibe. Not my preferred conversation to have before family dinner after a five-month wait.

Option B: Confirming our relationship status as ‘official.’ This option also promised a troublesome outcome. If Logan confirmed that he was, indeed, ready to pursue _this,_ then staying away from him over Dad’s Italian night would be impossible. Parmesan or no parmesan, I would be tempted to consummate our relationship on the dinner table.

Bad Idea.

He strolls in the sand, back straight, casually swinging his arms. How does he look so good, just _walking_?

I wonder if he knows how much I _crave_ him?

I was addicted, and I desperately needed a hit. But, like any addict, I didn’t know how to pace myself, and I was at dire risk of overdose if left unchecked.

So I bury my thoughts deep inside. Content to stroll the beach with Logan in companionable silence, occasionally glancing at him in the darkness, to check that he’s still there, that he’s really _here_ with me.

That thought alone is enough to get me through.

\--------------------------

Dad had prepared his famed manicotti and Logan polished his loaded plate, twice.

I’d been invited with promises of my all-time favorite dish, lasagna, only to arrive and find that my special meal had been substituted after announcing Logan’s surprise arrival. I mean the manicotti was good, but it was no lasagna. Dad may have spotted my slightly disappointed face when peering into the dish. 

“Thank you, Keith. That was amazing, without a doubt that is the best dish you make! It’s so good to have a home-cooked meal. The wonders of mess halls and ration packs wear thin pretty quickly,” Logan puts his knife and fork on the plate in perfect symmetrical lines.

Dad smiles, basking in the praise.

“I’m glad _someone_ appreciates it,” he looks at me audaciously.

“Hey!” I point my finger in his face, mockingly, “I appreciate every mouthful. I just noticed that my promised meal was suddenly usurped by Logan's favorite, but _whatever.”_

Dad chuckles, “I gifted you with life Veronica, oh child from my loins. Surely you can suffer through your second favorite meal.”

I dramatically retched. “Dad, come on, _never_ talk of loins, especially yours. And after we just ate too. As far as I’m concerned I was conceived by immaculate conception alone, no loins required.”

Logan sits back in his chair watching Dad and I barb back and forth like a Wimbledon tournament.

“Dearest spawn, I think that most of the antics you partook of in your teen years prove to me that you are far from the second coming of Christ.”

“Antics? What antics? I was a perfect child in all ways. Come on Logan, back me up.”

Logan shakes his head, vigorously, “No, no. I plead the fifth on this one. I’d _really_ like to live through the night,” his eyes flick to mine for the briefest of seconds.

Dad laughs while he and Logan share an exchange of conspiratorial looks. I throw up my hands in mock exasperation.

Logan and Dad’s relationship had blossomed in the last few years. They went to ball games together, they golfed, Logan even encouraged Dad to go swimming with him when he surfed as part of his hip rehabilitation. Dad now donned his wetsuit daily and swore that the Pacific Ocean had healed him. The two of them seemed to think this newfound connection meant that they were entitled to gang up on me, share their secret jokes. I love to goad them for it, but of course, it was adorable.

“You better watch yourself, Lieutenant Echolls,” I point at him, winking.

He responds immediately, “I think you mean Lieutenant _Commander_ Echolls,” with a smirk.

I pause, my mouth dropping open. Dad’s cheeks crease with a proud grin.

“Really?” I ask.

He nods, just a sliver of pride dancing in his eyes. I lean over and punch Logan on the arm, he winces mockingly and rubs the spot. I underestimated the resistance and massage my sore knuckles.

Touch Count: Six.

“Got my epaulettes last week.”

“You’re a sneaky shit,” my eyes meet his, and he winks.

_Lieutenant Commander Echolls._

It has a lovely ring to it.

Dad claps, stands and pushes his chair back, “Excellent news Logan, we need to celebrate.” He walks to the bar and starts rifling through bottles.

I nudge Logan’s foot under the table. Stoically, he keeps his eyes directed at Dad and nudges me back.

Touch count: Seven.

Of course my nudge means, _I’m proud of you._ Just look at you, Logan, you are amazing. I think he knows that. Pride in him bubbles through me and my eyes momentarily mist. I just can't yet speak the words.

Dad returns to the table with two bottles. “Okay, we’ve got an option of scotch or an eight dollar bottle of Merlot from,” he inspects the bottle, “Chile.”

“Scotch,” Logan and I reply unanimously.

He opens it, pours three glasses and we chink in cheers.

“To Lieutenant Commander Echolls.”

\--------------------

We ignore Dad’s protests that he’d clean up after our departure and begin to clean up the mountain of dishes that his specialty dinner produced. Dad’s one-bedroom apartment is small and lacks the comforts of a dishwasher.

I wash, Logan dries. That’s our routine.

I wash a plate, place it in the rack, and Logan picks it up, dries it and puts it away. I can’t explain the small pleasures that Logan knows where the dishes go in my Dad’s house.

Dad’s phone rings, he looks at it and excuses himself into the study.

We continue to work together in silence.

How is it that after months apart from him, I suddenly can’t think of one thing to say? I assume it comes with knowing that the dinner is coming to a close. Soon, we’re going to have to talk, _really_ talk and I’m growing increasingly nervous even thinking about it.

After washing the large serving dish I pass it to Logan directly as it’s too big for the rack, he takes it, walking behind me to the cupboard to stack it away.

I pick up a pot and place it into the hot water. Forcing my eyes downwards, keeping my focus on the pot before me.

Don’t look at his reflection in the window before me. Don’t look at his long, lean neck, his wide shoulders, the way his back flexes when he opens a cupboard door.

Most importantly, Veronica, do _not_ look at his arms.

Lost in my useless distraction techniques, I’m startled when, without warning, Logan is behind me. His entire body suddenly flush with mine. Long arms slink under my own, and his hands slip into the hot bubbles.

My legs almost give way beneath me and I drag in a deep breath.

His fingers slowly slip around my own and he laces our hands together in the wet. He takes the sponge and our joined digits scrub at the pot in unison.

Logan’s chin rests on my shoulder casually, his chest rising and falling against my back.

Back and forth, the sponge goes over the stainless steel. All the while his fingers are gently caressing mine, hidden beneath the water, his pinkie locks around my own. I’m hypnotized by the sink before me, watching his arms, tanned skin and spatters of dark hair contrasted against my own small pale ones.

My entire life I’d underestimated the erotic nature of pot scrubbing and swore to myself to do the dishes more often.

I lean back, unconsciously impelled, pressing myself further against his broad frame. He responds by pressing back.

Chin still on my shoulder, he twists his head and speaks into my ear in a gravelly whisper, “Can we go soon, _please_?” His ‘please’ is strained and desperate.

Yes, it was indeed time.

We’d danced around each other all day. His skin finally against mine, telling me more than words could. He wanted this, wanted _us,_ and I was no longer scared to offer him my heart, I felt increasingly confident with every scrub that he would accept it.

“Yes,” I reply, voice shaking.

Logan takes one hand from the water, hot and bubbly and runs it up my body, sweeping it against my clavicle, leaving a trail of bubbles in its wake. I feel like his lips are going to kiss my neck, his warm breath washes across my skin.

But he doesn’t, he waits.

“That is going to be the cleanest pot in all of Balboa County,” Dad’s voice booms as he strolls back in and sits at the table.

Logan steps back, wiping his arms with the cloth, grinning sheepishly. Immediately, my body reels from the loss of contact.

Touch count: I’m unsure of how to convert _that_ touch into a numerical value. Touch count one million.

My face flushes, and I take the pot from the water, handing it to Logan, who continues drying nonchalantly. I pull my wrinkled hands from the water and drain the sink.

I dare myself to look at him, I know he’s watching me. Brown eyes under those lashes, _yes,_ it was time to go.

 _Now_.

\------------------

We sit in silence for the ride home.

I drive while Logan watches out of the window intently. In the darkness, the streetlights flicker over his features. The air is thick, the blush still sitting on my cheeks from the interrupted handsies in the sink.

Of course, Dad _knew,_ he’s not an idiot. He saw it before I did and bestowed his usual sage advice. But it was just that, advice. It wasn’t a push either to Logan or away from him. He gave his blessing but understood inherently that there was history there, those things couldn’t be rushed. It was as though he could tell the stakes were higher this time. That was undeniable.

It was the reason that we were too afraid to talk, to voice it out loud could mean either the beginning or the end of _this_ and I couldn’t even comprehend the end.

I park in front of my apartment, and turn off the ignition.

As we sit unmoving, I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, over and over, tap, tap, tap.

He finally glances over, staring at my hand in warning.

Yeah, it was annoying me too, but not as much as your silence, Logan.

He rubs his palms against his jeans, “Okay, I think this needs to happen now,” he speaks fast.

I nod, still tapping.

Suddenly I wish I drank more scotch.

“So” he runs his hand through his hair, back and forth again and again. “Have you had a chance to think...about _everything?”_

“You know my answer Logan,” I respond, my voice a little small.

He turns and faces me seriously, “Do I?”

I nod.

He looks at me, expectantly and a little impatiently. “I need you to say it, Veronica, _out loud._ ”

“Logan, my answer has always been that I want to do this. I want to be with you. Nothing has changed for me at all.”

He nods slowly. My whole body rushes with chills, and I feel sick. I realize that _everything_ is hanging on the words he says now. Maybe his hands in the sink was just a lusty slip? A general feeling of dread encompasses me. What if you lay your heart out on the table and it’s splattered into a thousand pieces?

I momentarily consider vomiting out the window.

Logan finally speaks, “Good,” and the lines around his eyes crease and he smiles.

In an instant, the chills disappear, and warmth spreads through me again.

He reaches out in the darkness and finds my hand, wrapping his fingers around my own.

“I want to do this too.”

I squeeze his hand a little, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he smirks and leans into me. “Just as long as you’re fully aware that I’m still me. I’m going to do stupid shit inevitably, and I’m going to piss you off.”

“You piss me off now, what's the difference?”

He rolls his eyes at me dramatically.

“Well, thank fuck for that,” I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“I thought about you every day. Every morning when I woke up, every night I went to sleep.” He speaks, focusing intently on our hands, rubbing his thumb over my own. “And I realized, why am I fighting against the _only_ thing in the world that I want?”

“That’s a great question.”

I reach up and touch his arm, “But seriously, you need to go easy on yourself. We’re in this together, we’ll ride the chaos together, right?”

Logan nods, almost imperceptibly.

“You realize all the reasons you hate yourself are just some of the reasons I love you?”

“You’re weird,” he smiles and reaches up to brush my hair behind my ear.

His eyes watch my lips carefully. “And that’s just one of the reasons I love you,” he whispers, leaning towards me in the moonlight.

I latch my hands around the back of his neck, lightly grazing my fingernails through his short hair. His face, inches from mine, the gap closing quickly. We kiss, softly and carefully, once, twice, before he pulls me deeper, inclining his head and his tongue hungrily sweeps against my own. Slow and soft, comforting in ways that words could never be.

His lips taste like scotch and home.

How does one gracefully maneuver over a gearshift? I honestly can’t answer because I must have done it; I inextricably find myself on his lap, not entirely sure how I got there. Logan’s hands are sweeping up and down my back, untying the knots I didn’t know I had, his mouth refusing to break from my own.

Every nerve ending suddenly comes alive, hyper-sensitive to his touch. I grind myself against him in fervent sweeps as I straddle his hips, completely transfixed by his presence, by his warm skin under my hands as I graze across his stomach and chest. He responds by bucking his hips up against me, his hardness straining against his jeans, pressing into me.

Breasts crushed against his chest, his hands move up my back to my bra strap, and he deftly unhooks it before sliding his fingers around. Encircling my breasts in his hands he runs his fingers over my nipples, cradling them between his forefinger and thumb before gently caressing back and forth.

I respond with a moan, grinding against him harder, trying to align his bulge with my core. I find the spot and he thrusts in a rhythm I ache for him to replicate without clothing. My shin presses against the seatbelt clasp, causing a shooting pain to run up my leg and pull me from my lust-filled stupor.

Am I seriously going to do this in a car? Fifty feet from my apartment? We’d waited months. Surely we could get up the stairs to a comfortable bed?

Surely?

I realize this is all some kind of fucked-up high school re-imagining and I break the kiss, panting against his cheek.

“Logan.”

He groans, “Hmmm” and his lips resume their search for my mouth.

“As lovely as this is and as astonishing that it is that you or I don’t have some form of PTSD from our previous vehicular rendezvous, we are not teenagers hiding from parents dry-humping. I am too old to fuck you in the car,” I point to Hollow, “in front of a dog.”

His head falls back against the headrest, and he breathes deeply, attempting to compose himself.

“Okay, well we need to get inside, _now,”_ he growls, and I pull myself from his lap and stumble out the passenger door. I rake my fingers through my hair to restore some kind of semblance of order.

We run up the stairs, two at a time, Hollow excitedly following behind. His enthusiasm short-lived when I lead him into the laundry, coax him into his crate and shut the door.

Sorry, nothing to see here furry friend.

The instant the laundry door closes Logan is behind me, encircling my waist, turning me towards him in the darkness. He dances me against him, slowly running his fingertips up and down my spine, eyes locked on my own.

“Veronica Mars,” he whispers.

“Logan Echolls,” I purr.

“Are you ready?” he breathes into my ear. “Five months without you. I’ve got _serious_ time to make up here, and I intend to do each and every thing to you that I imagined while I was gone.”

His tongue peeks out and licks my lips. My legs wobble, and I pull closer to him, seemingly incapable of achieving the kind of closeness my body suddenly demanded.

I want to climb _into_ his skin.

“Such as?” I respond, nibbling at his neck, tracing my tongue up to his earlobe.

He reaches up pulling my shirt over my head, my bra, still unfastened from earlier easily follows the shirt’s path to the floor. Eyes travel to my chest hungrily, and my nipples respond to his gaze alone.

“First, I’m going to taste every part of you, because I dreamt of your skin,” he drops to his knees, his tongue peeks out and swirls it around each nipple, leaving a glistening wet trace. I take his short hair in my fists, clawing at it as he continues. As his mouth works me into a euphoria, his fingers fumble with my jeans, undoing the button, unzipping the fly then shimmying them down my legs. At no point does he break his contact from my breasts.

He caresses my exposed hips and thighs with warm, gliding palms. Then, one of his hands advances downwards, delicately tracing over the lace underwear that I thank the Gods I wore tonight.

Slowly, devastatingly slowly, he pulls the material to one side and fingertips travel back and forth in my wetness.

I whimper, grasping back at Logan’s hair, his lips unmoving from my nipples. Nibbling, swirling, sucking. His finger suddenly stops and edges itself inside me, teasing its way up, all the while exquisitely coaxing the slick walls around it.

Then, just as I part my legs further, encouraging the digit deeper, he withdraws it and encircles my clit, firm and sensuous.

I may just die, right outside the laundry room door.

Logan pulls away from my nipple and looks up at me. “I said _every_ part of you,” a devilish grin crosses his cheeks as he leans lower and replaces his finger with his tongue. It laps against my clitoris in deft, lascivious circles.

Maybe he’s spelling out the alphabet, who knows? I don’t care. Whatever he’s doing, he’s doing it _right._

I reach down, pushing his face further against me; he elicits a deep groan as I do. The reverberation of that groan on his tongue takes me to the next level. When his other hand relocates to slip a finger inside me, his lips and mouth never stopping their delicious assault, I’m done.

I buck against his face, “God, Logan!”

He continues, slowly and lavishly until I’ve calmed and I pull him up to my face by his ears. His eyes are black. He wipes his face on his hand and kisses me desperately.

“That was even better than I imagined,” he growls.

Running my hands over his chest, I’m disappointed to find his shirt still there.

_How the hell is this man still clothed?_

The click, clicking of canine nails against tiles and whimpers from Hollow in the laundry room behind us breaks my concentration.

“I think we need to relocate before we traumatize Hollow forever,” said Logan.

I nod, words still unable to leave my panting mouth.

He reaches under my ass and lifts me, legs wrapping around him, carrying me to the bedroom. His shins hit the bedframe and we topple down, Logan landing on top of me as I scratch at his clothes.

“Off,” I bark out, and he obeys swiftly—jeans, shirt and boxers in a pile on the floor.

He is back over me, hips nestled between my open thighs, all of him _there,_ waiting at my core.

I briefly ponder reaching over and turning on the light. I want to _see_ him. He’d lived only in my dreams for so many months, I want _this_ reality, in the flesh.

Of course, Logan reads my mind. His tongue continues to battle with my own, never missing a beat as his hand sneaks to the bedside table and switches on the reading light.

We pause for a moment, panting, eyes adjusting to the light. Hooded chocolate depths, transfixed, inches from my own. Goosebumps flow across my entire body, there is something about not only feeling his desire, but seeing it too.

He murmurs, eyes wide and hopeful “You and me?” and I bite my lip and nod.

Always.

I reach down between us, taking him in my hand, guiding him inside me, filling me. A ragged moan escapes his lips as he slips in deeper, then drags himself back before thrusting deeper again.

We resume our remembered rhythm, and his hand slips between our bodies, the pad of his thumb grazing over my clit, circling. Coupled with his powerful thrusts, I clutch his back, digging against the hard flesh, pulling him closer, as if that were even possible.

The simmering warmth in my core starts to spread, and I buckle under him, crying out his name. Feeling my walls contract around him, he smothers my cries with a desperate kiss, groaning into my mouth as he feels his release, collapsing onto me.

Breaths finally returning to normal he dusts my brow with kisses and looks into my eyes.

“ _Why, why,_ Veronica did we ever think this wouldn’t work?”

\-------------------------

I wake to an excited, fully clothed Logan hovering above me.

There is sunlight outside, but not much, it must be ridiculously early.

“ _What_ is wrong with you?”

“Morning beautiful,” he quips and kisses me on the nose, entirely too awake for this time of the morning.

“Sorry, I can’t sleep. Jetlag, timezones. I waited for a few hours, but now I’m bored, and I want someone to play with.”

I grab his arm and turn him over to double down for more snuggles. He succumbs to my direction, biceps curling around me. I lean down and kiss one. He lays still for a few minutes, but then his wriggling returns as he leans in nibbling my neck.

“Logan, I’m tired. _Someone_ kept me up all hours insistent on pleasuring me until I collapsed. Not all of us can survive on three hours sleep. Why don’t you take Hollow for a walk?”

“Already did.”

I groan, “Fine, make yourself useful and call in sick for me today.”

He squeezes me a little tighter, “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Well, if you’re home. I’m having lunch with Josh and Leiha today, wanna come along?”

“Is this the same Josh you just spent months at sea with?” I quiz him from the pillow, eyes squinting against the light.

He nods.

“Are you officially in a bromance?”

Logan bats his eyelashes acting like a schoolgirl, “I might be.”

“Okay, I will go with you on one provision. You call into work sick for me, and you leave me alone to sleep for at _least_ another hour,” I close my eyes.

“Deal. What do you want? Leprosy, Syphilis, explosive diarrhea, sex-induced psychosis?”

“Let's just go with a sore throat. They know it's bullshit anyway because everyone saw you in the office yesterday.”

“Good point,” he takes my phone off the charger and wiggles out of my embrace. He leans over me, pulls up the covers, tucking me tight in my blanket burrito and kisses me on the head. “Sweet dreams,” he whispers and leaves the room.

\---------------------------

Mid-morning we pull up outside Josh and Leiha’s house. A historic craftsman, beautifully renovated in pale blue and white. It had a low-pitched roof with wide eaves over a small front porch. As we stepped onto the porch, we were greeted by two young girls, playing in the corner. Dolls and doll’s clothes spread out in a secret corner behind the bricks.

One tried to ignore us with a shy smile, the older one looked up and said, “Hi Logan,” grinning at him with dimpled cheeks.

We ring the bell and are greeted by Josh and a heavily pregnant Leiha.

“Come in, come in,” motions Josh, welcoming us into his home.

Logan's hand rests lightly on the small of my back, the gesture so familiar and comforting as he guides me through the door. I notice Josh’s eyes drift to the touch and a subtle knowing glance passes back and forth between the friends.

The refinished oak floors lead through to a lovely warm lounge area and kitchen. The ceilings high with exposed roof rafters, all painted white. It’s small, but stunning. Maybe it was just the conditioning of living in my very plain one-bedroom apartment with its horrific orange tiles. But it was just so nice, to be inside a _home._ It had been a while.

Leiha is lovely and friendly, inviting me into the kitchen while the boys look around the house, Josh showing Logan all the renovations he’d recently completed. Leiha leans against the counter, her long brown hair swept over her shoulder. She seems quite young for a mom of almost three, and she carries the baby well on her tiny frame, like she has a basketball stuffed under her dress.

We chat companionably, and I’m instantly comfortable with her. Leiha is funny, warm and kind, and she _understands._ She understands the waiting and the worry, and she assures me that we will catch up again, when the baby is out and we can enjoy a wine together to help pass the lonely nights. I find myself looking forward to it.

After lunch, we sit at the table, enjoying coffee. The small girls have left the table to resume their games on the porch. Logan drinks his coffee in his left hand, his right hand resting warmly on my leg. I place my palm against his, and our pinkies lock.

I fix my gaze on his large hands and lightly calloused fingers, amazed that they were capable of so much tenderness.

Josh looks at our hand-holding and looks to Logan, “So, can I assume that things are official?”

Logan chuckles and nods.

Josh claps, “Thank God for that! Spending five months with this pining mess was wearing thin. I’m in the bunk above him, hearing him cry himself to sleep every night,” he goads Logan who responds, narrowing his eyes at Josh playfully.

The bunk above.

My mind instantly rushes to inappropriate happenings in bunk beds. Phone-sex happenings. I squeeze Logan’s hand a little, and he squeezes it back reassuringly.

“Fine, fine,” Josh continues, “He wasn’t _actually_ crying, but his silent stressing was quite annoying.”

Leiha nudges Josh to stop his teasing and changes the subject, “Did you say you guys were together in high school too?”

We nod in unison, “On and off, yes,” Logan replies, glancing at me with a knowing look, summarizing many tumultuous years in four simple words.

How do you explain to someone, outside of our Neptune bubble, all of the things that transpired in our teens?

The irony that the boy who made it his teenage mission to tear me down was the same one who lifted me up again and again.

I’m not sure they’d believe it if we tried.

\------------------------------------

We say our goodbyes with promises to meet up for dinner as soon as they can secure some babysitting. Logan and I climb into the car.

“They were lovely,” I say as soon as the car door is closed. This is a big thing for me, liking people, feeling an instant connection. It’s a nice feeling.

“Their kids are lovely, their home is lovely. Are they pod people?” I ask.

Logan chuckles and buckles his seatbelt, keeping his eyes on the road in front of him. “I don’t believe so.”

“You like the house, huh?”

I click my seatbelt in and look at it again, “It’s incredible.”

Logan puts the key in the ignition but doesn’t turn it; he leans back against the car seat. I narrow my eyes at him. He’s acting a little strange.

“What if,” he pauses, suddenly nervous and he pulls at his shirtsleeves. “What if I bought it, _we_ bought it?”

I stare at him, perplexed, “ _That_ house?” I look at it again, “Is it even for sale?”

“Not yet; Josh mentioned he was going to put it on the market. They need to upsize, its only got the two bedrooms. I’ve been here before, I knew it was amazing.”

A million thoughts run through my head, I try to find just one and catch it, asking, “Can we even afford it?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know. But I still have Mom’s inheritance money. My income, your income. We’re both paying rent, for not much more per month that could be ours,” brown eyes stare at me with total clarity.

Logan’s thought this through. This is not a spur of the moment happening. He wants this, for _us._

My heartbeat clicks up a gear.

I’m shocked, but with exciting tingles lurking in the back of my subconscious, breaking their way through all the negative thoughts. Surely we couldn’t, but what if we _could?_

Fingers run through his hair, “I don’t want to waste any more time V. I want to come home to you. I don’t want to go back and forth anymore. It could be your apartment, or it could be mine, or here. I don’t care. I just want it to be with you.”

I’m too busy thinking to reply, so he continues, filling my silence. “I never really got to have a normal life, a normal house, you know, a home. Casa Echolls was always a shitshow. When Josh mentioned it, I just thought that maybe it was something _we_ could have, something that we deserved?”

Yesterday I woke up not knowing he would even be home, and today I’m sitting outside the front of a house he’s proposing we buy.

My equilibrium shaken, I took some steadying breaths.

“Can I think about it?” I say with the beginnings of a smile. 

Logan smiles, seemingly more than happy with that response. “Take all the time you need.”

It was something I’d never even considered. Somehow a _house_ just seemed like a far-fetched prospect. My own time in a happy home had been short-lived. Apartment living had become the norm, always moving when leases were up, never really settling in, hanging pictures or making anywhere my own because, well, it wasn’t.

He starts the car, and we drive away, my head craning to take one more look at the house. I look back to Logan, sitting straight in his seat watching the road. And I’m pretty sure I’ve already made my decision.

\---------------------------

That evening I’d resumed my thorough inspection of every _inch_ of his body. Satisfied that all parts were still in excellent working order we collapse, sated against the sheets.

Logan lifts the blanket over our heads, and we burrow underneath. A little light spills through so I could still make out his features. Hair dishevelled, a slight stubble across his jaw, his skin still damp from exertion.

I consider licking his shoulder, then do. Yep, it tasted as good as it looked.

He doesn’t flinch, then instantly reciprocates on my shoulder, licking his lips afterwards.

Moving onto his arms, he hovers above me, “Maybe we can live here, in the fort?”

“You don’t have to convince me,” I reply, grinning.

“Blanket forts are significantly underrated.”

“Agreed.”

Logan swivels his head, looking around our cocoon, “Maybe we could order pizza here?” He puts his thumb and pinkie to his face, making a hand-phone, then puts on his phone voice, “Hello, yes we’ll have one large pepperoni, extra cheese. 452 Price Street, Neptune, sex-fort #1. Just leave it beside the pillow, money’s on the nightstand.”

I interrupt him, “Oh, can you order a side of buffalo wings too?”

He looks at me horrified, covering the mouthpiece of the fake phone at his ear, “Ew, Veronica, wings in _bed,_ in our _sex-fort?!”_

I shake my head, “If we’re going to co-exist here you’re going to have to make some compromises, I want wings.”

He mulls over my request briefly, crafting an excellent solution. “Maybe I’ll make a bucket for the bones on the floor?”

We pause, both looking at each other, then laugh. “Yeah, that’s gross, no bones.”

He drops his phone and lays back beside me, arm raised to hold the blanket above us. “We could move the TV in here, a nice chaise lounge, stately columns, really class it up?”

“What about Hollow?” I play along.

Logan thinks, finger on his chin, “Fine. I’ll make him his own dog-fort, on the floor. The sex-fort is human territory only.”

I consider him, “You’re very confident in your fort making abilities.”

“Veronica, I’m simply the best, don’t you know that yet?” a sly grin on his lips.

I laugh, “Trust me, I’m aware. Now, use that amazing ability to procure us some drinks?”

Little does he realize that by saying that he triggered Tina Turner in my head. _You’re simply the best, better than all the rest. Better than anyone, anyone I ever met..._ Oh yes, Logan, you are...the best.

He nods, salutes and scurries out of bed, leaving me under the blankets. I hear the thud-thud of his footsteps, the fridge opening. I smile, imagining his naked form illuminated in the fridge's glow.

Thud-thud.

He returns climbing back into the fort by the foot of the bed, strategically shuffling his body against mine, he lifts the fort roof back up and passes me a bottle of water.

We prop ourselves on our elbows facing each other, and he raises his water to chink with mine.

“But in all seriousness Veronica.” His voice shifts, “I want to live in this fort with you,” his eyes dance with humor, but an undercurrent of earnestness lingers behind it.

I beam, “Me too.”

We finish our drinks, and slightly starved of oxygen, finally de-fort into fresh air.

Logan lays on his back, opening up his arm, inviting me inside.

I don’t think twice and slide my body against his, hooking my leg around, ensuring that there is not a single gap between us. I nuzzle into his chest warm and safe, the slow, steady heartbeat against my cheek.

This nook, it was mine, and I never wanted to go anywhere ever again. I would follow it to wherever he wanted to be.


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**\-----------**

I sit on the porch with a cup of coffee and a pile of files at my feet, notepad perched on my lap.

I know he’s coming home today, butterflies sit low in my stomach.

There are the worst days, days when I’m alone, days when I do more worrying than breathing. Days when I wonder if all of this anxiety is worth it, worth the paycheck, worth the lonely nights.

But then there are days like today.

The best days.

The days that Hollow sniffs the warm breeze, his ears pricking up, flicking back and forth like a radar. He trots across the yard, wet nose between the fence palings. Tail pointed and strong, like a beacon. His gait starts to quicken, and he impatiently circles the yard on this glorious green grass where he can run and chase his ball all day long. He is the embodiment of pure devotion and happiness, his bliss heightened inextricably as a car pulls up, and a figure exits the vehicle. He reaches in to grab his duffel bag and slams the door.

Tail speed increases exponentially as the subject walks closer. Tall, wide steps pace towards him and the whimpers quickly turn to excited barks. The wagging of his tail travelling down his torso into a full-body dance, twisting against itself uncontrollably.

He crouches, hand outstretched and bestows pats and scratches on the willing subject who practically coos in delight. After a moment, he stands and turns to me, chocolate eyes melting into mine.

He is home, all of him, after three months of waiting.

Logan walks onto our porch, takes me in his arms and the sweet relief of his skin against mine bursts the butterflies from my stomach, fluttering through my whole body.

Never did I regret climbing out of that motel bed and into his. It forced us to take the chances that we’d longed for. The nook was just an added bonus.

We’d held ourselves back for so long, convinced that love would only hurt, we’d forgotten the best part – that love could heal.

These were most definitely the best days.

* * *

* * *

If you want to read Logan's POV of this tale, check out [Nook of LoVe!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25646830)


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